nor does the love of flesh
portray the enormity
of the ink that weeps upon my page
nor give sufficient life
to the words that cling to me
like orphaned children
in search of a family
such as pain of mind
that amplifies an unjust justification
that allows shadows to linger on my mind
that which allows the trickle of tears
to slowly wet my cheeks
a blue blair, dead, still
that adds to the temporal ruins
that violate my freedom