A poem begins as a silent beat in the throat,

Like garments of knots splices you shed in the dark

Embroidering them with the metallic thread.

My pulse is a winding staircase of blood clots

Choking in my own crimson mark.

This dusk will cover the moonlight in red.


It’s written in the stars and stains

The line that never ends…

I will run where the furious winds take me,

I will follow where where ever your heart needs me.