Black blood squeezed up from my heart.
Sometimes it’s caught, stuck in my throat,
Letting slivers of art
Elude me, and ink only drizzles off my tongue.

It's caught in my sight
The swirled swish of passions power
Goes long beyond the hour, sneaking past the night

And so it always seems to be
That rancid air will neither come nor leave my lung,
Because I am drowning –smiling, in the pages of an open sea.