I wrote about the wild winter wind <br />As it stung the flesh and caused tears to fall; <br />I wrote about the blazing sun, solitude <br />And melancholy, the soul's itinary: <br />I wrote at dawn and dusk, midday and midnight <br />Lines on pages, wrong on right. <br /> <br />Enclose me with words, paper walls. <br />Inkstained fingers and reams <br />Yes, those were the dreams. <br /> <br />The fingers would move, the pen would dance <br />And as thoughts glided on <br />Many a frozen lake did I cross <br />Countless times was I reborn <br /> <br />Several phantoms came to call. <br />Life, linear time, past leading to future: <br />The present wasn't so omnipresent <br />No, not at all. <br /> <br />I am far from the familiar. <br />An almost, almost failure. <br />I feel the weight of the words <br />The price of taking refuge in other worlds. <br /> <br />I write about the choices, difficult <br />And irremediable that a woman has to make, <br />Like stolen moments from destiny's time. <br /> <br />I show my foreign face to unfamilar winds <br />On beautiful bridges. Some pages of verse <br />Accompany me on melancholic days.<br /><br />Rani Turton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/paper-walls/
