FREED VERSE

A soul refined 
	marked, etched by words 
	it has yet to fathom. 
A heart wretched 
	overgrown with thorned roots
	of syllables and entrendres
	yet to be doubled.
A cursive line frenches an em-dash
	while the consonants flirt with the vowels.
	They sing to one another, dance
	on sound waves of their own design.
Crashing, turning, spinning, burning! 
	Yearning for a better time.
	A time when their ink could find 
	fantasy from the world, define 
	their auras with their prose 
	instead of this earth 
	begging us to dispose.