The Survival Story [Poetry]

Heading east of the full moon,
     my paintbrush stains the inky expanse with stars
sticking stories across a canvas in lusty light.

The tell tales not of the gods, but human heroes
     who save sad souls with the mere power of voice,
of well-spoken words, prettied poetry, and the prose of their plights.

They saved humanity by admitting they survived.

Scars stain their skin, but they can't be seen
     amongst the stars I use
to sketch their stories.

So when a suffering soul looks and seeks the remaining woe,
     stashed away in Pandora's box like a secret,
they'll see, east of the full moon, the constellation containing it:

Hope

sticking to my inky stained canvas with an imperishable ink.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush