I write... I write...

In this cloistered
oblique night.

It comes in through
the corners of eyes
shadows black
they come disguised.

This feeling, wanting
feral pain
snatches breath
naught remains.

I read... I read.. I read...

maybe then
I will not bleed.
I can only
count the ticks
the clock is mute
the seconds lick.

I read YOU
you precious child
fingers stop.
No longer wild.

This has shred me
to the bone
though not written
for me alone.

The demons
gibber and cavort
but
silenced, dumb,
by precious art.

If there's one thing
that I could say
you have
touched a life

today.