Beating a song into shape.

Words bristle and ignite themselves

Backwards and upside-down before a pen can be found -

Claiming a strange reward in shattering bursts

That flame and die all too soon

To recreate such catastrophe.

I have left Life fall cold a plunging necessity somewhere behind me,

As I retrace its electricity...

Like a weed that triumphs charred ruin,

I suppose Nature springs from me then.

Blowing its brilliance through my lungs

Blazing its secrets forth

Changing colors against the frost

While I capture it thus -

Imperfectly -

Letting it cool past my fingertips,

Shaping it numb and trimming it to proper form -

Elementally agreeable

And trained to speak.