I Write, I Write, I Write

I’d like a palmful of metaphors,

Ones to use every time

I put a pen to a page,

To plant in my heart

And become submerged in my hope,

I would like to hope

That before there was a sky

Bleeding stars,

Before there were planets

Polluted with creation,

That there was still the beating heart

I’d like to garden

My own heart,

To pull the weeds of sadness

And hate

From the foundation

I sprout from,

To plant seeds of hope