You write morsels
he points at me with a fork
you are too young to write something someone can truly feast on
he bites a leg, tearing the meat from the bone

He cannot be moved
And the light on his head illuminates nothing
Igniting only scorn
a splotch of despair

A hand, I need a hand
A pen
The immense gravity of an original idea
Holy water, a well that extends for miles
folding me underground with a tender touch

Listening to the earth, its quiet revolutions
reanimates the soul
teaches you how to breathe

it will take some time before the ship realigns itself
before the sail slices the sun into halves.