Too many harps

Every word a spear that finds its mark in here where the heart beats,
where the ends of oceans meet and disappear into horizons not yet reached.

who taught me to sing when I couldn’t speak
and walk before I could barely crawl?

who is it that knows it all?

I call upon these present to present themselves,
no one moves fearing a hold up,
but
this ain’t no bank job
there is no heist in progress
just me
as I progress,

every word a spear.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.