Bleeding poet..

That hand holds dear a shampess pen, where flows the blood from one’s pain. From a broken dream comes a bleeding heart, sweet are those eyes that weeps in a cold dark night. The moon stood by to judge anyone not, sails across the depths all at once.

One may speak richness of love, the other may have spoken circumstances of one’s falling apart. A prisoner of a deep spell, that seems to be too impossible to decipher.

A poet griefs in silence for a reason, as it dares to engulf to one’s frozen fire of adoration. Though it bleeds with ink on a sharpened point, engraves therein the emotions left untold.