when it becomes impossible,
to strike the lines between, what is lived
and what is penned.
when the ink and the blood
intertwine
from heartbeat to stylus
insoluble is the grace
that pulses from
a grateful author
indelible, are the marks
of contented exhales
scrawled across
sublimities’ parchment
the signature is never mine
but rather,
the borrowed passages
of the…
Witness…
Let me drink,
from the sustenance of your heart;
For mine beats,
in resonance of its impart.
And the rate,
of my reverence for its remark;
Is the pulse,
to the poetry of my art.
It is for you;
That the skies part,
and the words flow.
That the lights arc,
on the wave crests glow.
It is for you…
my dashes…
