Ink Stains

Taste the ink that runs from my veins, through my pen, staining this page as I set my endarkened imprint on society, the signature of a melancholy soul. I spread my mists of verse across this parchment to tickle the emotions of the masses, awakening them from the doldrums of routine, encroaching their own hidden thought like I had clawed them out of their heads. Those destructive intentions, severing flesh, splattering blood and little morsels of meat, creating impressionistic art on the walls of their safe little dwellings. Hellonic landscapes, reddish smoke seeping from fissures in a volatile ground, twisted trees barely seven feet tall hanging on like a gnarled old man on life support sparsely scattered about the sandstone bluffs, spiraling dust devils dancing about spitting dirt in the air as if it offended them, leaving dull tan voids in the sky distorting the crimson hue that clings above the deteriorating, jagged spikes that scratch at heaven’s gates, holding back the water laden clouds that have been trying to cry on this parched earth for eons. The instigation of my imagination is a mere speckle in the nuances of the night, a slight glitter that my cataclysmic mind (a) preys upon. These stanzas have been developing since time itself, I just snatch them out of the air like an Archer fish launching a stream of water to score my next meal, laying them to bed as I see fit, tucking them in with punctuation and my unexplainable determination to release expression. Taste what flows from my quill, it might entice you to be the next scribe.