Confessional #17

Indistinguishable ideologies;
basic core tenets, obsolete signs.

The typewriter
sparks a flurry
of pulse and breath,

If I am a god,
my soul is spent
on paper, and ink.

Everything else,
an erasure of my time.

In this present moment,
keyed up calligraphic horizon;
burning with the flames
of anticipation
for inspiration,
and sleepless, manic mornings.

I am a mother of words.

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