Saturday, August 15, 2015

scripted ink

i do not want to be someone who writes in pencil, 
someone who walks with their eyes glued to the street 
and tops of strangers feet, i do not want to be someone 
who drifts through the brightest constellations without ever 
greeting a single star. i do not want to be 
someone who forgets to breathe in 
the rythmic presence of a strangers heartbeat.

i want to be someone who speaks in scripted ink 
hollow yet concrete so that the oceans, rivers and valleys echo
 with a voice soaked in sunrise observances; 
the gentle breeze from strangers' eyelashes, cloudy rings around irises.
i want to be someone who when their hands become obsolete, 
rays of stardust from their fingers creases they'll leave.