...In The Ink...
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