[OC] The Pen Cuts Swiftly...
The pen cuts swiftly across the page.
The pale white bleakness that is the poets flesh.
Words spill forth from open veins.
Assuming the semblance of ink.
We were giants then.
I with my brush and you with your words.
Amnesiac deities both.
Gods in winter.
Walking and trading secrets in the rain.
Said I to you, "Is this love?".
and you to I, "Is this love?"
Such a silly ill defined thing.
A steady hand excises the remnants of what once. perhaps may have been.
Gathered into syllables, words, and stanzas,
pressed into the shapes of thoughts and painful memories of happier times.
The water drops slake the thirst of fertile soil beyond the glass.
(The barrier between my world and that).
Protection for that greater realm,
containing stillness within.
Entropy and stillness.
For what else could come from half of duality.
There is no inclination to dance.
Lost are the edges of self.
A specter in a fog having neither light nor shadow,
with which to define a memory, that was once a man.
A stroke of the pen severs my pain,
separate yet still a part Troubling still,
Yet less troubling.
Bound now to paper, and bound in turn.
Imprisoned between leather covers.
Left to creep and sulk between the leaves.
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