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I’ve seen the pen bled dry upon the page

left while waiting for soft and chubby child digits

still too slow to lift and become armed,

the thought run dry and astringent

not tight like the hands that grasp and count,

but crying to be wet and rest their appetite.

Here I have set down the journey

to gently lift up the soaking map,

that trembles in between push pins,

while I stare in awe, cautioned not to watch

as the needle was bled dry on the vein.

That room nestled and cradled in as many arms and veins

it could riddle with the infant dream –

eternity tapped on the pulse.

 

One solitary smoke-stack,

back drop to the white night sky,

swayed chimneyed between two fingers

tracing onyx Grecian clouds in shapes unread

that I’d come to think I would forever see

becoming was what was to become of me

which I ‘d continue to cast but break endlessly.

 

I’ve watched the timid and modest run dry and unclothed

on nothing but winter air into the barrens of well known night

in illicit after dark conservancies on borrowed natures,

where pulse could run free and unseen;

and faith run dry because the rope was short and the well was too deep:

it frays and stretches to reach just before it breaks,

or wretches out remaining hours before the self conscious sun wakes,

or while mining the vein the golden pick quakes,

and with final strength found to lift, emptiness takes

as I await hearing a splash from bottomless lakes.