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a pen that bleeds
ink on pale sheets
which morphs to shapes
and gradient fields
into a notebook
I bound in black
embossed with names
of my once summoned saints
but the ones in need
the ones we need
are always coming back
a golden shield
shines and reflects
but wasn't built
to parry all hits
to protect
a vulnerable spirit
in a fragile shell
or a thought in your head
you've never meant to tell
I feel haunted
and I blame everyone around
when I should blame myself instead
for a thousand reasons
which I can find written down in a book I wrote myself
And when I cross the last border
(from the once in need)
and burn this last meaningful bridge
(from the once we need)
I will finish the last chapter
(and they will never ever come back again)
and reach the final page of this manuscript
then I will just close this book...
carve my name in it's spine and dare one last look
and for the memories
of my futures' past
there's this shelf; high enough
for my regrets to rest

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