in scripted turn of phrase and worded play,
time took the moments as they gathered pace,
and told their story with synaptic grace.
The pages were unfolded one by one,
as life drew needled pen from fate’s deep case,
and scrawled forgotten truths upon the years,
which drew in strangled blots upon my fears.
The letters dragged and danced upon my mind,
and flung themselves into an ordered whirl,
which others might decipher given time
and yet which Soul and Truth could barely find.
It was as if the tale had found new forms,
which rose and fell upon the wash of lines,
and led each word into a settled place,
and brought to birth the Self, at last displayed.