, , , , ,

A sweet embrace of ink to paper, as soft lips release its river blue, to stain the page with lines –

Echoes of shapes oft good and true, one by one from mind to page,

once white as snow,

once innocent to thoughts which now it holds.

Sweet drops of writer’s blood, they drop,

sing sweet melodies of memories and dreams once dreamt,

paper taking its shape foretold, its purpose felt throughout the core. Yet

here pain courses through veins of blue, once softly spun, now

ripped into the sheets of white..

Red ink in truth, as author’s heart bleeds upon canvas, a scream

lurking behind vicious slashes, digging

valleys in this shapeless plain.

Soundless drops of tears began,

crashing like thunder among the words written, to break their

form, symbols of love now lost,

each rain drop a memory of love once held.

Each injured word diluted in its form, spreading

further within its host, letter or three damaged beyond repair,

that eyes quite clear might only guess at missing words’ intent..

A tale of heart broken in two, then three and four, an endless

game a child might play. 

How often can you split this page in half? 


onto the soul of unsuspecting parchment, cursed

with content so heart wrenching, tragedy might barely suffice to describe.

Was fate so cruelly wished upon its face,

that no sign of happiness could bring beauty to its blank surface?

Could not one word,

one lonely form of love or joy

be blessed upon its cover?

Fleeting thoughts of time

untainted by that broken heart

the pen conveys, one stroke by stroke,

Up and down and all around, spinning

a web of darkness. The author leaves

the pain behind, tears of blue slashed across the torn page.

Committed to the flame’s deep thirst, it wonders

silent in its death, what it as paper could have done,

to know just loss and grief and death?

Why must it carry the pain of the world, painted upon

its tabula rosa..