My pen whispers
in the sweet scratchy sound
that leaves your name
a trailing swirling line
on the aged surface
of my blank memories.
An assonant thought
that meets no standards
no structure
no metric
no rhyme
no rhythm.
Voice!
yes it has a voice
a whimpering cry
that echoes on the wall of solitude
where
tears of indigo
carmine
and purpurin
fill the well
of a broken heart
My pen whispers...
