Within me a fiery passion burns
hotter than the reddest leaves of Autumn.
Not for Another.
But for ink.
That pitch poison spilling onto aqua lined page
resting beneath my side-palm.
That steady fountain of emotions:
anger, elation, despair,, hope, flowing all at once.
The liquid that sets my mind into some state of permanence--if only for an instant.
Never able to be erased nor entirely blacked out.
I itch until the urge
to let my calloused figers glide effortlessly across the supple canvas of trees
becomes too much.
An explosion of black against not-quite-white serves as my catharsis.
I breathe for this fleeting feeling of oneness with the world.
And with every closing line
I am born anew.