The sound of the pens tip scrapping across the page leaving words scarred in its trail
The solitude of silence tapping its fingers to the skrit-skrit scratch musical noise
Paper and ink the evidence and accomplice of the deed and the crime
Is it the hand or the eye or the mind or the heart that plots what letter falls next
Is it the devils or the gods or the ominous threat of the unknown shaping metaphors
Is it for love and passion we let the words of relentless storms crash down upon the page
Is it to feed our lust and satisfy our desire that we stroke our fires and spew out self gratification
Letting the pen trace along and explore the papers pulp becoming hungry tentacles strangling prey
Acting as if fingers tracing hips to legs to lips to find warmth and moisture
Both hoping to plunge into the unknown to find and explore
Secrets of pain and maps of pleasure and caves of dark fear and bottomless pits of despair
And the most sought out treasure and most elusive prize of both nirvana and nightmare
The hands and heart of love in all its sickly heavenly beauty and pain
The pen stitched to our fingers and tentacles to make the skrit-skrit scratch
Hoping to make the perfect song and noise to draw out the map of everlasting
*LOVE