Ink

I can't be this breaking,
paper sculpture anymore.

Pages wilting on the edge
and nothing more.

Yet, this passage claims
that everything
will soon be right.

So,
I'm kneeling down,
to pray to gods
oh so quietly
and polite.

Left begging silently,
as drugs steal serotonin
from our minds.

Prophocies becoming scapegoats
and proof the gods are on our side.

Though maybe only for today,
love temps me with forever.

And
My inards scream
with ticks of clocks,
fists knocking on my mind.

Still, I hope this midnight ballad,
finds your heart still melting,
not-yet-dried-up deep inside.

Completely breaking
out of time
with stories perpetually half written
and tales lost in sensless rhymes.

I'm sending out this letter on
the wings of owls tonight,
with fantacies that they're making passage
through your ever wandering mind.