Ink Bleeds

I offer you nothing that words cannot explain for themselves.

Do you see how this ink bleeds
across blank dead wood;
pressed yellow as if it were a coward’s seal?
But we know the truth,
each stroke stokes the flames of solitude,
so hide yourself in bending fancy language,
and erect monuments to reality.
Everything is nothing when the heart is what bleeds.

Reviews

[Ruth]

Oh wow!
Yes, this is so beautifully woven!
Ink tastes everything and nothing...ever changing! Gorgeous piece xoxo