This Is Not A Love Poem

It has been, obviously, a very very long time since I have put pen to paper, and then fingers to keyboard :p Alas,  here is something from my recessed caves of creativity. This is not a promise for more, just a hope that my creations will crawl forth again.

Anyways, enjoy

 

This Is Not A Love Poem

 

 

 

This used to be my journey,

the pen was my hope-

the sacrifice of inner truth flowing-

the slow unfurling

of

a rose  .  .  .

 

I bled blue ink from the marrow of my bones.

 

Now the ink nips

as the quill quickly writes,

black bubbles blooming

in persistent spite.

The truth that spills

are things better left without light.

 

As the ivy snakes

and comes to close around my throat,

the pen still scribes

finding substance in my ghosts.

I’ll be swallowed by very garden

from which we all arose.

 

As the world fills with sorrow,

terror reigning near and far,

the grey shades of these frightening days

have left fear stains

a shade too dark.

 

This used to my freedom,

I used to write in blood,

but now my heart is haunted

though I write nothing

about love.

 

 

 

 

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