(If veins were to rupture, could they scream out the agony?)

Written with the ink of solace, binding thousand poems into letters.
If only strength was held more than between these fingers,
I would distribute them, refreshing the velvet clouds.

Lurid to the gazer, its perplexity intertwined to their eyes.
They would stream down, drenching the orb with its tide.
On the lap of the inhabits, who would breakdown like the romantics.
Like a child with unutterable words trying to decipher its meaning.

But saying that would be enough, would be treason- a lie.
Because nothing could dwindle the ruffle precipitating through the burden of this mind.