the ink reminds me
of a series i long promised
myself i'd begin
chronicles of local pain
that pin prick searing
your soul's reveiling
you would carry it
for sometime
then with a flourish
unwrap the memories
you'd had ever since
days gone by
but each one marked
a way to say
without words
no paragraphs weighty left
in unknown passages
just the feint and blow
tinged blue and then
all the others called a friend
my dear my sweet
what was left to keep
have you no sunday's best
to wake you from your rest
up and at them deary
erase those eyes bleary
to me and so
words exhausted go
naked with speech
denuded mind
would find the time
to in the here again
night and fight and end
on words that empty ring
like the bells begun to sing
your only again i say
for me ever after day

'the ink reminds me
of a series i long promised
myself i'd begin
chronicles of local pain'

Beautifully descriptive~

It's not the ink that tells your story.
But the texture of the paper with its rigid and course lines to heed. As your fingers tap out the
embedded strokes of your living heart to breed.

Great write man.