The writer's voice

Pieces of me float down stream
As I watch the distance
churn them under
Rushing water in my ears
A voice like soft thunder
it rumbled telling me its time
In that forest under the lush green canopy
I found the solace of shelter
where it was safe to tell the story
of what happened so long ago
What I could not capture in
that box to lock up safe
had flown away and returned
as a pigeon with a message
wrapped tightly around it’s leg
as if an extra vestige impairing its flight
Removing it, I hoped it was blank
but it just unraveled and unraveled
and the words, written in red
blood in calligraphic script
to remind me of the pain
I would reject
for telling it in flat affect
to minimize its trauma
would take away the effect
as I spin my truth into fiction