Spirals

A poem about something.

We reach for tomorrow with the turning of a page as we rip out today and toss it away.  Set free from the wire wound through our spines, weaving us seamlessly together, but the ties that bind are not forever.  There are inkwells in our fingertips, graphite on our lips and with every touch, every kiss we aspire to define our love between blue lines on the page or the red ones  on our wrists. We dip our pens within the ink of our forgotten futures, fermenting fallen fruits of failed fantasies, the permanence of the pen is perhaps the mightier of it and the sword but why not fill our inkwells with the blood of the fallen so they need not be forgotten? Why not write with blood as blood cannot be erased without ripping out the page? Slowly tearing spine by spine until supine we lay, our two feet three times beneath the clay as, spineless, our pages float away.