Rusty quills

In the archive of ink & yellow trees the heart is pumping

Blood

Which worms its way through narrow

Veins

Until it leaks out from fractured

Skin

And a borrowed quill brushes

LIFE.

 

The pain sounds more like a cackling

Flames

And you wonder what you did to deserve such 

Laughter

It’s not your fault, it’s not my 

Fault

We are simply the hostages of something

BIGGER.

 

The world will slip through your

Fingertips

And you’ll let the wet tears scratch your

Eyes

As those you love swallow the salty

Remains

Of their stories being reduced to 

ASH

 

Unless you find a blade sharp enough

and SINK

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