Waiting For My Soul To Return Poem by jerome moore

As a writer worth half a page
I toss word shapes and holes
in the cosmic vastness of space
words that burn out over time
words that are weak compared to
their surrounding.

The blank page Which i throw them on like
a thick putty that I grind from my teeth
the dryness in my palms
the sweat from my neck and tears slopped down on a pallet
what a sour taste it brings
constellations which i could trace with my pen tip
tied together with invisible lines.
WHen the words come out right they look so beautiful
tangible and pure from here on earth