Words on the tip of finger
Spread across medium-sliced lines
Sentences hover and linger
Freed from the reason that binds
Gathering leaves, scattering seeds
Hoping that you will find
The flowers that punctuate freedom
The seconds that syncopate time

To the scream of a life-support failing
Comes the beat of a hand on a heart
And the piercing shrill of death wailing
Comes to a halt with a start
There on the screen
Who’d have believed
Life could imitate art
But I swear it’s your handwriting in red neon
There on the life-support chart

The blinds that are closed against morning
Glow like the lines on a page
Postponing eventual dawning
Of the sun in a violent rage
Touching the blind, disturbing lines
Hoping that you will find
The flowers that punctuate freedom
The seconds that syncopate time