Tales Whispered Only to the Dead Leaves — NaPoWriMo Day #15 — a poem about reclaiming your creative self

Silken strings of words surround me,
pages crinkling a comforting symphony.
While believed to be in hibernation,
I secretly spun a web of strangeness,
a collection of tales I'd never told—
or that I'd whispered only to the dead leaves
even as they blew hotfoot away from me.
They were fallen like all my angels
but they were blessed.

It seemed so tragic at the time.
A gift of the mind, wrong place, wrong time.
But I based that opinion
on incomplete information.
Even the golden seem cursed
when they're so unrehearsed.
Inexperience is not a death sentence
and certainly doesn't make
an artist's work worth less.

Bitterness fell away as I twirled my silk.
Line after line, thread after thread,
I found page worthiness
and stage worthiness.
Denying the dream
or its inherent value
only rendered me hopeless.
Never again self-critical,
never again dismissed.

Photo by: Tom Van Sichem