Blank (a sigh) Blank (a pause)

The pen (a sigh)
The pen (a pause)
The pen has not touched the paper in some time. The tip yearning to share its knowledge in ink, stretch its arms, spread its wings across the endless horizion of the paper’s surface.

I (a sigh)
I (a pause)
I have not written masterpieces nor have I fought the fights that I yearn to write, yearn to fight, each day, each night, to share what I’ve learned, stretch my arms and be all in one, encompassed, fulfillment of self-actualization.

We (a sigh)
We (a pause)
We are no more while at the same time everything and anything, all at once, and perhaps, never again. My heart’s door shudders to a close when I explore the pain We inflict on everything that We are: each other, our ohana, this world. Yet still, it swings wide when I think of yet another chance of glorious, of glorious, of glorious,

Dot.
Dot.
Dot.

That remains to be written.

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