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Poem

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.

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