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.