Jacob Ramon

writing was an answer

To a shuddering question
Momentarily paused
Into fragmented steps of a pen’s stroke
Searing wonder, blinding bafflement
A litany of soul in the mind’s cathedral
So he began to speak
Stilted by the lost cry of consciousness
And he confessed
As if a last attempt of deliverance
Crying through the ink
Onto the throbbing page

writing was a dive

Into a suspended ocean of sky
Tethered by the musk of his librarian’s collection
Basic in a sapling’s sense,
Exploding his colors across life’s canvas
He sweat this skill through the pores of memories,
chasms uncharted and cold as acceptance.
So he drowned himself in it

writing was a journey

Through time’s warped terrain
Splotching his sanity through the bowels of society
The soupy kitchen, the day of night
His sun, his star, his scowling light
So he shouted into a judgmental silence
Assimilating the relics of what he stole
He was a thief, but never touched a thing
But rather he let the world
Snatch and pluck his mind in a hungry dance
until he realized
it only crowns him in thorns
His pen a stem to pedestal its flower

writing was an agonizing freedom

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