This is a short poem I wrote a long time back. It's really only a rough draft. I have a longer one that extended to four pages, and I may post that here as well (it's one of my best) but I need to figure out how I should break that one up, or if I should. I'm afraid that might ruin it, but who has the time to read a four-page poem? I'll figure it out eventually, but in the meantime, I present Wonder.

Held together by silver safety pins and burning copper wires, shining in the dimming evening
Suspended from a mast by taut ropes yet to be cut loose, sailing into an angry red and smoky orange sunset.
All I can know, all I have known, this.
Absence of warmth from the moon. Stars are merely a sprinkling of stars. Pinpricks of light.
Deprived of wonder. Moon, stars, endless stretch of soft blanketing sky--
but that is all they are.
Remember?
Who is this "I"?
Remember? She wrote about all with wonder when she was young. Stars, moon, sky.
Boats sailing on seas, sunsets thrown over rippling waves, and even,
even what it feels like to be held together by safety pins, shoulder blades tightly strung with burning wires. Even that.
Tears sting my mind but won't come to my eyes. Tears require fractional amounts of wonder, too--slipping pearls,
soft skin in the dark, alone--
Yes, that is "life" as "I" would have defined it.
That is what's essential to be "alive".

Edit: should I post my calligraphy art here? I might.