Words pursue and explore my being that stories of old may bleed upon new canvasses, ink mixed of beauty and flaw.
To some this pen a mere tool. This pen a vessel by which rhythms of blemish flow. With this pen I lay rather than you for it’s ink never runs dry nor cold.
This ink speaks of moments, moments of forbidden thoughts. Moments of continual nights and distant dawns.
Without this ink no blood would flow and canvasses wax old.