I pick up that faithful fountain pen and let the Scarlet blood ink that is the storming sea of emotion and thought fill him up.
A satisfying sigh he does release as he awakens when his deadly thirst is quenched.
I let my hand go and he has his way with the unstained, white as snow paper.
A sacrifice and masterpiece they are together- violence and beauty.
An interjection of serenity to the flowing river that runs through me.
I sit still, aware of space once again, and I stare.
Lying on the old oak table a sheet of paper looking glass.

06/13/2010

Posted on 06/14/2010
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