For this day

For this day nothing has held me bound, nay, not like this,

for the chains of this mere world have been asunder.

Not the taste of spirits upon lips, not the smoke that

danced within lungs, not the coldness of revenge,

not the warmth of a woman, not the justification of men,

not the counsel of friends, not the foundation of family.

For this day nothing has held me bound, nay, not like this,

not the morning star, not the lesser light, not pleasure,

not purpose, nay, not the promise of tomorrow,

not the remembrance of yesterday, not the praise upon my name,

not the censure of the same, not the fear of death,

nor the curse of everlasting life.

Not the sins I have committed, not the forgiveness I have sought,

not tears, not laughter, not the ground I stepped upon,

nor the place I called home.

Nay, for this day nothing has held me bound, no, not like this,

for the chains of this mere world have been asunder.

But to bask in the ever waking of writing,

yea, this one thing has fastened itself to me

where no chain could.

Yea, supper could wait. I have abandoned sleep.

Yea, a world that belongs to me.

In writing, I’m the author and finisher of things.

I have made men from a sentence, given sorrow a voice.

Yea, I have given fear a name and love a place to live.

The ink comes from my veins and stains the page.

So for this day nothing has held me bound, nay, not like this.

Only the pages before me, the worlds within thee,

the pen between my fingers.

For all the chains that this world has offered me,

writing is the only one

I have willingly worn.

Akeel Louison
BlackRose Archive