A Writer’s Life

Twenty years of faith
have led me here
to this precipitous place,
The very edge
of my dream

If the wind shifts rightly
I can close my eyes
and savor its perfume

This dream of mine,
a writer’s life
I was born to
live but have yet to attain
so I walk as a ghost
in the scorching daylight
one foot in each world,
yet not fully an inhabitant of either

My refusal to relent
is born of sheer stubbornness
bred from generations
of those who did it the hard way
those who, I see
in some curious way walked
their hope with them,
To the grave and then a bit beyond.


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