Will my voice matter?
is every writer’s quest
question, coping quicksand

not the sound as it sputters
and reverberates into the throat

but the worry
hovering at the back of self-
importance. Choked by diffidence,

I’m supposed to write

for myself
because I’m called to words
like a moth to flame
and if the page ignites
ink burns

cinders remain
lining the annals of history.

Will my combustion resonate?
is every poet’s plight
ashen and disintegrating
like remnants

whispering
in
the
wind.