I found all your written letters,
The ones coloured with flowing ink.
Creating abstract memories on paper,
Sewing together every bone in body,
and weaving together fragments of forgotten seconds.
Wherever you were, I found your ink traced flowers,
Preserved within pages of foreign stories,
Resembling the token of lost time,
Covered in graphite that has travelled seas,
Oceans made of everlasting memories.
And with every word I read,
I set a dozen flowers free.
The ones traced in scribbled ink,
And watch them as they aged.
Hoping if I let them go, I would find something new,
And that time would set you free, every time your words reached me.

behind her bangs
she saw
in the field where she sat
was dusted
with violets and bright, ruby poppies
the sky was painted with gold and violet
hues of blue and pink.
behind the darkness of her eyes
she thought.
she opened them,
and saw that
ink had bled into the sky
deep purples
blacks and blues.

Every poet is my ink brother
and every poetess is my ink sister.
I'm interconnected with their stories,
and therefore rejoice in their glories.

Every poet is my own kinsman,
Every poetess is my kinswoman.
We share the dark ink blood
and our lines flow like a mighty flood.

Every poet is the pretty boy of the ink family
and every poetess is a slay queen against ugly.
She embodies the essence of beauty
and her lines are the nectar of her sexuality.

Every poet is the ghost of Shakespeare
and every poetess is a lioness without fear.
Every poet and poetess is a foot soldier of poetry
assigned the tasks of securing God's creative pantry.

#IvanBrookspoetry©️
6.5.20

eden is hands
covered in ink stains
from my soul escaping
onto the pages
of tattered notebooks,
listening to the rain
fall softly on the window
like a lover's kiss
upon my shoulder
while the amber haze
of candlelight
burns slowly,
gently dancing
in golden celebration
across the darkness
just like the flames
that swallow me at your touch.