Splotch

ink
spilled
spoiled
splintered
splattered
searching for a page
where nothing may be Writ
~ ~ ~

Aftermath

this morn the dawn lingers stale,
festered of travails born of eve last
enveloped in yesterday’s promises
still-born of a serrated Night
~ ~ ~

Heat

I am scorched
marred of your fire,
ever stained.
ascend with me,
lay sweltering midst mine ashes
slow water me of your Rain

Self

there, that is me
writ in the margins,
inked of every line,
scribed of every page,
turned of every leaf,
pressed in every Tome.

           ~ ~ ~

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