I Raise My Pen

the once empty road of the writer

now a haven for those who cut soul,

spilling ink as pens are sharpened by

raking against old wounds. we gather

in the portal and scatter words, 

strobe our thoughts and make bright

all our nonexistent places, moved by 

the shouts and whispers of our brethren,

scrolling smooth before satisfied visions,

crisp and seamless. I can touch your 

thoughts here and I can feel the pain

become numb as it leaves for good. 

we are all broken in the same way, a

symphony of hearts personified, quick

to purge and listen. though there are no

doors or locks, our frailty seems secure,

watched over by the builders who carved

a home out of space. I raise my pen 

like a glass. and I toast to Prose. and

drink myself. tomorrow I will empty

the bottle in a parade of words celebrating 

that we are here.