I Write

Sitting on that piece of ground,
I write,
in this cold and dry night,
the old tales, still unwritten
Words, in chaos,
through my fingers, spilling on to the
gleaming paper

whirring emotions
stirring the cold fire inside,
Little by little

I write,
with my blistered,
Protesting hands
giving me the warmth,
the painful comfort

While darkness feeds,
there
I can see the stars,
trying painfully,
to steal a look

The images, so bleak
with effot, I try to shape them,
into poetry