Writing is in my bonesmy platelets made of words.I write with the pens that are my fingerswaving sigils in the air. I write with the pens that are my fingers; each finger long boneshollowed outthe ink flows throughinspired by the guidance by the stories my body holds.
Month: October 2021
Bone writing
Fingers like twisted branches reach for a pento write about the lines that fold around her gnarled knuckles dry with age from holding onto stories too longher forearms rest heavyon the smooth white pages of bark as she writes her story with ink made of dirt;lines of language.
Angela Mason 