For us who write, from deserts—
streams and rivers from the
tears that gleam with every
moment we have lost, to graphite
shards and cursor’s call.
For us who fall, and die,
we bleed, our sordid secrets
across blue screens, shaking
fingers clutching ground beneath
the fingernails we forgot to paint.
Us the silent paper flowers pasted
in the corners, us, the whispers of
remembrance when laughter fades.
We, the shining, we the brave
displaying shredded hearts
as we dance, for all watching eyes
for creator’s call.
Shandi Bleiken 2012