What a lovely red pen
that inks it way beneath
the parchment skin.
Till, all markings become
oh so, permanent.

Pointed penetrator
that writes precise
but terrible delights,
as delicious desires
obscure the facts
with flights of
fanciful abstract
creative acts.

With these
written confessions
I call back
to my past
and ask
where did I acquire
this brush
that paints with fire,
burning with bristling fibers
setting sunrises ablaze
as I begin each day
pursuing the same.

I deliberate
as others wait,
and use my time
to compensate
for this transient state
by trying to create
something that will
live just a little bit longer
then me.

All things change.
The pen becomes
the special brush.
Then in time
like all that I find
the things I use
to write my story
disintegrate,
to the waste of fate.