I write under red waves,
where the hum of the ceiling fan
doesn’t reach my ears.
Along the rocky shore stands a wall
of empty pen shells, with wet globs
of paper between them, sealing the cracks,
filling them like mortar. At sunrise, the bricks
of broken dreams come tumbling down.
And I, beneath the tide, dart away
from them, heading towards
the horizon of a new day.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen