The Ink Dries

THE INK DRIES

My letters are formed incorrectly;
I am a garbled language of dripping ink, indecipherable even to myself;
and I wander in a dense labyrinth of a forest,
unprotected and isolated,
free to roam aimlessly,
and so held captive.
I have no traveling companion.
I am unrecognizable and incomprehensible.
This was a soulless journey.

Emerging from that heavy-breath’d and constricting wasteland,
I discover a fellow traveler
Whose intuition guides me with golden light.
For every step I take with her,
I can see my letters take shape.
The ink dries.
My words are written,
page after page after page.
I have been translated by love.