...In The Ink...

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Stellar wounds flickering…

Can I ask a question of the lights I cannot seem to touch?

Why is it so deeply you fascinate gazes in horrendous distances?


Come closer to feel the street.


I say your anguish is remarkable.

A fall to the very whim.

Root; antique war weaponry.

Seeds; the overbearing gust.

Those dreams beneath the stones.

Human dexterity; textures of earth…


Nothing sounds the same after.


Something louder than the fall made roots and gaping doors.

How I am perplexed and ponder these new colors of crimson.

Soft to the touch; violence is a kiss.

Passions of thorn; the angst to make livid the heartbeat.

I am torn between pages and peripheral angles. These corners are horizons in front of me.

How I am caged in questions.

I ask myself things until mad.

Then, I learn I am not forced to be free…


To write whatever I please.


So it flows eternally still grounded.

Needless to say if not read it is just a floating whim.

If tonight is the night to wring out soiled garments.

My soul says as long as I am writing…


I am free of this blood.


To thunder the mind into rapid carousels.

I must admit this ride made me sick.

I was apart from my pen and surrounded by the shallow.

Until my pain overtook me…


In the ink I said my prayers.


© Mimi Caneda Mata


◄ ...In Admiration...

...Isn’t This True My Beloved?... ►


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