Ink, the Poet's Blood

Blood – the ink upon the poet’s pen –
Drips like rose-water upon the paper.
And wording, through headache again,
The verse becomes the poet’s saviour.

Memories seen through technique,
Anvils for the pen’s fine blade,
The tools and craft are quite unique,
That shape the emblem that he made.

Whereon the rippling waves of sheet,
The diction serenely floats by sail,
And darkness claps upon the feet –
Tugging at the poet’s veil.

It is an escape, nothing more.
A way to leave the past behind,
And drift with rhythm to the shore
That seems so far away in mind.

Love and hate; they are the same,
Expressed with allegations of the heart,
For love has hate –  and hate has love to blame –
For the strife that caused them both to part.

Now, he feels not one. Not one.
And in writing, he aims to find them.
The silver moon or golden sun
Could not, his isolation, fathom.

And in knowing that it all has gone
The writing becomes his final plea
To take wing and fly to someone
Who will set the poet free.