The inky depths are frozen.
A cold, cutting skin bars the beauty while
blurred sirens drift beneath the glass
gifting me glimpses, whispering of the others that lurk there
Dazzling creatures that, with stinging, shocking strings
slip a knot around a languid wrist, and
in a flash of brillant pain,
impart to me something. Something more.
Something which will grasp the pen, and
in a storm of blue-black form a line.
Lines which, in their glory scorch the paper to ash,
lines which sum up the heart, the soul.
Lines I guess at now, lines that escape me
And will forever escape me
until I crack their captors icy grip.
© Copyright 2016 TMH. All rights reserved.
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