To play the heartstrings plays a song that only we can hear,
To love the artist in words,
Every string that sings the easing pluck of fingers on the page,
To love a poet,
To sing and grow my wings unfold and brings the snow it,
Lingers...
Under my fingers.
The tremble of little, unspeakable things.
Speak to me your fears.
The Pen and paper rend and savor the bend and sway of a heart that dares to hear,
The black pours from the poet sword.
Fingered on the page I bend and wage my war,
Inked and torn the paper bore the tears.
To love the art,
The burns too sore to heal,
To love,
The start,
The pen and art that bleed apart the papers,
Your eyes reveal the arcs I forgot to read,
The swings of ease,
My mind rings a wicked song,
I squeeze the pages between my aching, bleeding fingers,
The ink stains my blood,
Black,
The sting,
The flood of feelings, the shaking dealings of thought.
You caught my sighs , you caught my lies,
Now sing to me a different song.
Red fades to grey,
The lines begin to grace my fingers,
The cuts now painting my pains upon the pages.
My rage subsides,
Under the gates of shining hell,
the wells of golden swell.
My eyes crash again.
And there you are.