The Margin
.
Across from this quarrel of ink,
a beautiful phrase stands alone
in the drifting snow of a white page.
Its teeth, chattering.
However, in this journal of revealing
and concealing, ineffable and often
illegible thoughts; it is with the
ill-conceived and poorly written,
the childish metaphors and the
downtrodden memories, that I must
begin. For, in the back and forth
of all this, the hope, is that the
cure for what ails me, will appear
scribbled in the margin.
