Empty pages of words I should speak,
an empty sea where I would now bleed.
For no sudden reason in all certain lies
does the ocean fill up and the sky becomes dry.

Nowhere between seconds and minutes go buy,
elsewhere is autumn and winter push by.
I fail to notice when the sands in the wind
blow back to the desert where I want to be in.

Black horses on white silk and a deep violet sky,
appear in the sunset that’s painted and dried.
My hands reach out to the canvas in mind
but the picture dissolves in ripples . . . so shy.

I pick up the pencil that carries my words
to find the page that holds no lines,
that can bear the weight of ten thousand swords,
as it’ll cut it’s message like wind through closed doors.

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