wine, in perfect measure, is a bridge from tortured mind to blank page. Too little and the words get stuck in my fingers. Flowing too freely, and I am heavy, lost to the power of thought. wine, my translator divine, I am set free to speak my truth and fall back, satisfied.
The pen casts a spell to each of our little pains Charged with our ache, distills into peaceful stillness, a final and blissful end (Words indeed do save) Humans saving humans, this is true heaven, truly being blessed
Your words rival the rain that washes the dust of yesterday off the streets, They pull flocks of birds towards your speech, And like maps of the largest cities I dwell on them for days hoping to uncover every corner, Even the petals of blooming flowers Fly away prematurely to follow the words that rest on your tongue, Because when you speak you pierce the atmosphere With paper planes folded by your wisdom. Your words are pungent, like mosaics of foreign colour, They rest upon the palette of a dreamy painter, Wistful in colour, even when you haven’t spoken at all.