the ink within

Tired of writing poetry

For those without rhythm

In their heart

For the motions of my emotions

As I weave them into art

No more canvas

Filled with the glory of my love

Claiming feverishly

In ink

That it must come

From above

Instead

These tribulations

Will pour

From the depths of my soul

But only for myself

And nothing more

No man

Nor woman

Appreciates my pen

My gallery of love

No mortal knows

The true intensity

Of a web of passion

Tangled in fits of calculated chaos

Cordially constructed

Until it measures perfection

For love cannot be weighed

Or bound

When the beholder

Invites you to be found

Meeting ancient spiders in

The epicenter

Of the infinite universe

Of spindled silk

Woven meticulously

Within the skies

Like flies

The stars

Stuck in time

Trying to fall

Avoiding the capture

Of the rapture

Brightly throwing themselves

Into earthen Fields

Colored green

With the envy

That they may experience

The flesh when they rise

That they make awaken

To eyes wide open

Nostrils flaring

With breeze of lavender

And the sweet surroundings

Of surrender

Of golden beaches

Ocean shores

Diving into waters once more

No burden too deep

No breath too short

For a fallen star

Escaping the web

Of infinity

To feel

Humanity

And the touch of a pen

To write poetry

Once more.