Sometimes I dream
That I'm the next Emily Dickinson.
What an easy dream to have
when every day feels like dying.
I take my pen up
and with delicate care,
one pinky in the air like
I'm drinking fancy tea,
start writing
the most beautiful thing
I have ever seen.
The sungod will make his track
across the sky.
My body will be still
because my mind is not.
And if I forget to drink,
that's fine.
If I forget to eat,
my words will nourish.
I am racing against daylight,
keen to win.
My ears hear
how my pen scratches the paper
and my skin feels the warmth of
lines of light moving across my body.
I feel too, the indents my body are making
on the chair I've grown into.
Oh how real it feels!
When I die,
people will suddenly find
the boxes of poetry I created.
A treasure trove
ready for travelling the world.
People will be sad that
they didn't know me
but I won't be forgotten.
Another type of living death
than the one I'm currently living.
Knowing I will be found
keeps me company in this tomb.
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