So much ink
You could make
Rivers flow
Out of pages
The world
Dripping blues
Blacks, hues
To match
Every bruise
Ever received

You could drink it
Out of jars
And fountain pens
Tasting the bitterness
Which is
Most pronounced
At room temperature
(I know this because
I once crushed
A Bic pen
With my teeth)

Then you’d ask
For the palate cleanser
And start again
Every meal a treat
From the library
Where they keep
Everything
Forever
You could ****
The marrow of life
Without having to go
Through the bones

So much ink
A man must die
Before running
The source dry
Can you imagine
Expiring before
Silence has entered
The book
You spent your
Whole life
Reading?

Lately my words are lazy
Like my two languorous
Felines whose sleep
Is simply a subtler
Form of movement.
My words lie dreaming
Of running. Their paws
And whiskers quiver
Perhaps in the midst
Of a chase. They’re
Warm from the sun
On their bellies, turned
Upwards, refusing
To stand in a line of
Neatly aligned metaphors.
Dirt-simple and soft.
My words turned quiet
And mellow, no longer
Hungry storms of ice.
They’ve shaken the
Rain off their coats
And smell of blooms.
Their nails are long
And unused.
Contraptions for a war
Drowned out by the
Overgrown grass.
If birds flock to branches
Twittering, they merely
Roll on their back, turning
A blind eye full of sleep.
An excess of love
Has spoiled them.
Gracefully obese, they feed
Off the platters laid down
At regular intervals
Recalling the hunt as
A bygone era of
Needless toil.

Our bodies are not temples,
I will not be invaded as such.
We are ecosystems.
Made of grit, blood, and change.
Packed with multitudes of intricacy,
We love like gushing streams.
Wound like thorned bush.
Hurt by humanity like hunted prey.
As we burn, as we are cut down,
As we are wounded, crippled, abused,
We still grow.

amaranthine horizon 
tranquil mauve undertones 
sombre coalescence