My words are a beauty veiled, a blurred reflection, and a note
Of bleeding ink.
A shot fired, but since you blinked,
You don’t know where it’s headed
Or what to think.
I paint a picture solely of the eyes, dashing after corners, and grasping
At a wispy soul.
Attempt to harness its potential though,
I must grapple and spar;
An often failing goal.
Yet when I do succeed, it’s always at a distance. Secrets pause
And willingly surrender.
For it’s a gift of mine, or a spell I’m under,
And the idea is received well,
But torn asunder.
Thus, my words are a muffled tune, a lovely stopped clock, and a
Full half-moon.