Shifting Script

Sorting through pages, I stumble on a trace,

     ink trails of childhood, wide letters that splay,

     crooked lines dance, in a familiar space,

     where the joy of the words would bubble and play.

Now my script slants, more refined, it seems,

     curves that no longer fit the small, eager hand,

     a weight to the letters that dulls all the dreams,

     I wonder if lost is the joy of my brand.

Every stroke tells a story, of who I’ve become,

     yet echoes of younger days call out to me,

     in the dance of the ink, I feel bittersweet hum,

     like a ghost in the margins, yearning to be.