Ink and Fire

There’s a poet using the same words as me. Stars are the fireworks that get us going. My predecessors scribble with my hands and paper is on fire. Black ink only. We read ourselves in the reflection. Telepathy. The ancestors speak to me through poetry and love. Whisper. Hear them through the trees. I am the line between two poets, connecting in the midnight sky. We weave together the words in which this life is written. The page is hot and angry. It weeps for me. I wipe tears and ink smudges into oblivion. What did it say? It glimmers into nothing like the stars. My mind forgets where it came from.

At night, hands remember when they grab the pen. I write in flames again.

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My breaths lead me to a place
where only my mind
floats effortlessly among the clouds.
Changing shape, soft winds
show my thoughts the way.
Into the light
that glows deep and warm,
I can feel it in my soul.
Bursting from my chest,
rays of gold glitter
wrestle in the air.

Aside