Between the hemispheres,
beyond the furls and
wrinkles of the mind,
the limbic brain beckons.

Ancient keeper
of primal instinct,
of collective knowledge.
I open my inner eye
seeking bliss.

The Poet strips bare
the wounded Soul,
that it may bleed
upon the page
for all to see.

The Lover sees
the futility of
staunching
the flow,

for the Poet
would have
nothing
left to
give.

I want your Truth as you believe it,
weaving it into words poetic
even when it's bleak.

I want your Truth as you perceive it,
deep in your imagination
far from the maddening world.

I want your Truth to make me feel good,
because ugly or beautiful
it is sent to me from your most pure Heart

Poets pen their Love.
A tangible tracery,
ink stains from the Soul.

He thought it fun
to have her nibble at his Heart
in that filigree pattern so lovely.
Until one day he noticed
he had a Heart full of holes