Each Estuary a River

I live my life in syllables *(come ran flit drink believe)
each day as long as a year
a week no shorter than a month - February has March beat -
each syllable a measured stick of time
that builds my life into a heap, a pile, a record.
Soon brackets and (parenthesis) holding all
the other words in check
to keep them from (bleeding out) into
the open, will break down
and syllable upon syllable will
come flooding in. And I have no mop to stop it.

A pencil is a godess made of wood and lead,
speaking life into the page
and understanding rage in a cage (gauge)
and I am a dream maker with a funny tie
who bends the bars to let her through.
(worship footstool)* And syllable -
my sanctuary, my metronome -
calls me home each night
and in my unlit dreams
forgives my silent.