Empty pages unfold, like open landscapes
To hold every single “too much”
shelled at the trenches of my endurance,
until the ammunition supplies
Of bad days run empty, and
those pages are saturated.
My leather-bound Siamese twin,
Who pits my actions rigorously
against their own truth,
And therefore forgives me, where I’m
Still struggling to accept my flaws.
The space where the present moment shapeshifts
The inventory of collected impermanences into
Pieces of poetry.
Even though tomorrow’s poems
still are to be written,
I know for certain, where they’ll signify
Their consent to be laid down as ink.