I’ve rounded thousands of periods…both punishments & joys.
I’ve scribbled a thousand turns of phrase…each word my voice employs.
There was a time when a blank page was one of two last resorts.
As the road stretched on, they cleaved close to me; ever my cohorts.
Every letter of every word that I have ever writ down…
Sticks to me in a million layers; my armor & my crown.
Even wisps of sound that made no sense are now my bright brocades.
The tinkle of medals on my chest…the words my action fades.
Thusly, I am all that I have ever said, or wrote, or sung.
My teeth have their own typeface & I’ve an ink pad for a tongue.
L.B.Stowe 