Ink bleeds and sets in,
but the paper can be burned by a candle lit fire

To hold treasure in boxes and bones in gold crates
Last long enough to melt or decay in another's hands

One tries to surface Soul by telling the tale on flesh
And yet it too can be burned, scarred, eliminated

My pen writes beautifully, and organic onto my paper sponge
The ink bleeds like a river streaming vowels and consonants  into a chest of  melting, transmuting,
pure gold made by process in Soul and journey

There is no limit to adventure or bounds on idea
We only need to know we're alive to know the rest

I will fly when I need to and so will you
Pain is a wake up call

Deserving an immortal impression on Earth is asking to be the stones, the rivers, all life within the cycle
After learning how it is to live as all and move as one, then your mark shall be made

During this time, in the middle of it all, our words must continue to grow inside and push out infections
Which deter progression in truth, life, love, justice and happiness in the home of freedom.

If ever we are without paper and without flesh to bear our words, we must know there's another like a manuscript.

I will mark my words first and foremost in my heart so that they will never die

For Spirit never dies