Let me write my way out of this.
Out of this city of devastating blows,
When there is nowhere else
But the pure, blank page.
The last refuge,
Like the church of old,
A sacred place, where you dwell in protection,
From the outside world.
That threatens as it pulls,
That cannot invade,
At least in here,
If only here.
Where the good can come and congregate,
Against the bad,
Where we can re group,
And band together,
Chanting with our pens,
Against the forces that are banding up against us.
But they will find that they can not penetrate.
This strength that stands on the shoulders of giants,
And sings to future generations.
Of where we stand, in this our story,
And of how we will march forward.
Footprints on the sands of time are not made by sitting down.
They are when you’re a writer.