I’ve long to free my words, as if penned up in some bird cage. The solitude of the pulse less pen, it whimpers to bleed its ink as if time had frozen still. The sheets of white crumble in my hands as a marque of a snow capped mountain…my words in the valley, long for the summit of summer.
When it’s stroke bright, brought forth the cascade melt of the streams that quench the words sealed in the canvas of my heart. It is sealed like the ink, like blood running through my veins…my pulse skips a beat, spirals, slopes…will I ever write, is there hope?
savingelbert on Who do you Beat for Tony? Jey on Who do you Beat for Tony?