Spilled stairs

My brain is always three steps ahead of my fingers

and my soul is three steps ahead of my brain

 

I find my fingers bleeding

from the letters scribbled across veins

 

and tea spills the river of dawn

across the stained night 

 

The curtain falls on the act

I seem to have  missed

or stumbled into,

wichever is wich

 

They say my words will always be words

no matter the realites they take and look over

 

"The ink is no soul" the editors croon

and I simply say because,

theirs no soul in you

 

soul can be ink

or soul can be ash

 

but you may never know because we all decided past

decided the words,

or the sweat,

or the grit,

 

the clings to the life that soon will be missed,

 

for words can not fall

if there is no step

 

and flowers will grow

before they are met,

 

life is all words,

and life is all steps,

 

but don't take my versus to heart

for I may not have happened yet

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world

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