Where is the pen that wrests from me my heart?
So comes this fear that takes away all hopes,
Takes the lines, the muse, I just mope.
There is the pen in the trash, no more art
To adorn my hands, no more pot
To clean the ink stains of life, to help cope,
Merely muddy waters make thoughts all taupe,
Rivers of tears can’t wash away the hurt.
Splattered across a mauve’d sky, apart
From all clouds and dust are wishes motes
That tarnish dead dreams and many more, such
As fate or destinies chaos, and ports
Where ancient ships sail through memories cove
Painting the seas by their blacken’d touch.
Copyright 11/2008
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