Writing

I feel it in the fibres

of my being

a hungry call to reach higher

climbing fingers fidget over,

my keyboard’s grinning.

I let words tumble out

before I can catch them.

Letters spark onto the page;

a wildfire spreads over it’s ready route.

I am a vessel for the language,

black lines spawn from nothing-

they’re not from our age.

In between the realm of conscious

and subconscious,

the words float

carried by mysterious forces

dancing from my throat.