I draft myself in graphite,
sketching outlines of a man
I promise I will someday be.
The paper is thin,
creases spreading like doubts
in the corner of my mind.
Every page begins with fire,
but each ember dies
before the ink arrives.
Half built towers,
unfinished bridges,
I leave them stranded
in the white margins of time.
People ask for stories,
I give them sketches,
rough drafts and shadows,
characters without names.
I narrate the life
I never live,
a ghost in my own time.
From pencil to grave,
my hand hovers,
eraser dust like rubble on the desk.
Notebooks stacked like coffins,
filled with drafts that never breathe.
And when silence comes,
the only tale they’ll read of me
is a scatter of lines,
a man forever outlined
never inked,
never shaded,
never whole.
Phenomenally penned, Fred. Into the book it belongs! Excellent write my friend, I can relate. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you Damian
“Notebooks stacked like coffins”
love that line.
I think our whole lives are a rough draft…but will the final essay ever be written?
I wonder.
But I don’t wonder about whether or not I like this piece. I love every part of it.
When the silence comes, I want a signed copy.
j.