The Journey of A Poet

There are words,

I wish to pluck them from this fray.

And hand them to you,

In ordered memoirs,

Ink, spread thin upon this page. 

And these things are fleeting,

From brain to thought and tongue.

I cannot see them through this pen,

Perched empty ready to fight.

You did find me.

Once, in blackened ink.

And showed me of the colors,

I needed desperately.

Still. I lie for hours,

Hands to frail to hold.

Stained again to follow,

Black like soot I smear.

My fingers paint through distance,

Alone, Some foolish fancied thought.

Daggers hurt in metaphor. 

Slow, imbecilic fumbling. 

These wretched nails I scrape,

A face I cannot see.

And red looks fitting mixed in black,

The words, this torture, I need.