My flesh is a bowl
— words dripping
from the brim.
I am the place
where words breathe,
beat as a pumping heart.
I am a cavern —
empty, and full of
echoes and bodies,
spilling out words.
They cry in pain,
dance in celebration.
I am where words go
— to mingle, and to flirt
— to kiss, and to fuck.
I am the hollow,
and I am the spoon,
dipping out language.
I am white linen —
a bed dampened
by the sweat of ink.
I am the cup —
words — the elixir,
the heat and the cool,
from which a soul sips
reason or rhyme–
sometimes both.
I am the sanctuary
where verses pray,
incantations rising.
I watch them slip through
cracked, stained glass
— a poem taking wing.
———-
AUDIO FILE:
Pen's Ink 