INK
 

My fingers sometimes itch to paint;
to crystallize a moment, with all
its facets frozen in vivid color,
But I have not the art,
a brush is crippled in these hands.

My spirit sometimes ache to sing.
Emotions inside me screaming, longing
to be freed in song, let the melody
inside me take wing and soar!
But I have no voice, an instrument
is mute in these hands

So I hold a pen instead.
Words, my meager pallete,
every syllable a brushtroke,
weave stanzas into flesh
for muted songs.

Copyright © 2000 "INK" by Catherine Hermoso.  All Rights Reserved