Wooden bridge

The desk opened tales never been told
Etched into oldness
The secret of the termite who lost its skin
The sapsuckers dream of words forgotten
The mystery in inkwells and pigtails
Etched in oddness
And the wood laughed beginning to splinter
Broken words breathe then drown
Cross wooden bridge
Some ark of leftovers
Some forgotten ancestor
Waiting for the future
To retrieve its past
Between breath and creation
The past comes alive
Dreams retrieved
Etched in oddness
Oh but the pain
Against the grain
Of the forgotten
That sunken ship of dreams
Don't pass us by
Open your trunk
Transform us
Desk us
Don't let it all be
Forgotten
Catch our splinters
Words of pain
Of misunderstanding
We always meant
Has developed
A life of its own.

Denis Streeter 3/25/12