Is It Time Yet
to write longer stories
one must be able to see
through the windows of the past
to be able to look with humor
at horrific experiences with distance
to be able to paint them with a pen
to be able to twist the truth out
like wringing a dirty rag out into a bucket
to be able to refine hearts from the rough
like a diamonds placed
in the seat of the ring of a story
to be able to vomit all the colours
of emotions from faces known
launder them into words like money
bind them with curiosity
watch them shrivel into nothing
like raisins left unread
disregard them
as they die in the eyes of a sun
who can’t even read
a poem full of moonlight
that is longer than five lines