Climbing out of my heart
are drawn out stumbling words,
half-formed, inarticulate little birds.
They are slow and tired
more a cry than a scream:
my heart, it likes to dream.
How do I grow a new self again,
from the ashes of the ruins,
should I stand still in my illusions?
Those wordless little birds,
still straining at their cage,
will find a way to freedom on the page.
And eventually, inarticulate stumbling words,
grow strong roots of truth and power:
a word after a word is the only answer.