The ink

The ink is black
For purposes of scheme,
That World reflect
At least - the only dream,

That say for me
By shadows of command
How I should swim
In vast and stormy ocean
Of life...

навеяно:

Ink Юрий Лазирко

My blood’s my ink, a liquid form of thought.
It’s visible as wind and touchable by heart.
It flows and circulates; in every drop is God
for every stroke of nib is palpable and wrought.

My quill`s my voice – deep-downed, re-echoed fluffs,
a watcher of the swirls of brainstorms in my head
where drifting words are yearning tingly to beget,
the journey coast-to-coast depends on sailing crafts.

My nerves – my strings, desired pitches vex.
Who knows how long to press on golden silenced frets?
Minds convex and concave in puffs of cigarettes,
once spirit saves my day I’ll put on fire texts.

Oh tunes of hope, composed by pros and cons –
my running ink through channels blue like mothers` wait.
Where, as a river mouth, the nib meets salty waves
my heart that made of touch is prone to halt in stones.