Hearts

Painted on you, in you, carved, like a heart pressed into the printmaker's

Palm lies a desperate creator, blessed with oils of thyme, vin rouge, doused

With furious, blood rare, stains

Swallowed whole, a steamy concoction for quick relief, from the stranger

Dancing inside us

Wailing, splashing, breaking us all into bits, shouting as crystal shatters,

Chaos delights in us,

Striking across our souls which we are forever bound to

A feast deeper than need, a calling unlike that of any God, pushing

Ink to weathered paper, fingers gnarled, curled around pens, brushes, even

Smothered in clay

Gnawing hunger, thirsts never quenched, our beast at best is the ejaculated

Artisan who stands relieved, just for a short breath in awe of what came

From the fight within