@Blackween 4 September 2020

Disoriented Poet

*The ink has run dry* *there is nothing in these pens* *other than this enticing pain* *calling out your name* *and with humility,* *you readily avail yourself.* *You see pain has its way with men* *it digs a path* *that you reluctantly follow* *far away from the comforts of your notions* *while stranded in seasonal conditions* *you go where the pain leads.* *The new place claims you* *it inhabits you* *wields your said pain like an armour* *then turns those unshed tears to ink* *to flood on blank pages* *seeking to make its hold tamer.* *With every poetic spill* *your soul finds relief* *the snail pace of how to heal* *like building a bridge to the moon* *taking its sweet time* *yet it can't be coerced or helped.* *You hammer against your spirit* *tap on the fickle walls* *that house your tired human* *checking if they still hold* *and those that can fold* *and collapse on your damned feet.* ♧♧♧ Also posted on my Publish0x.