"The Writer"

There are unmarked letters,
An alphabet rides the water's edge of his mind.
Capturing the second of present and future,
Revealing the past.
There are riffles in the stream,
Past tears have been shed,
Holding the comfort searching for him
In the sunshine.
Events mark his finger tips,
The blank pages will absorb his words.
Everything speeds past his thoughts,
Some, to fast to catch.
Life holds the story of this mysterious realm.
This interior formlessness of time
Making the words of the writer,
His own.
They tell his tale,
To the unsupecting reader.
His written web is woven,
Pulled by the letters falling together,
Forming the recipe,
For another's mind.
The reader completes the author,
Kindred souls on a journey together.

By Cara Milnor 12/26/2007