I am the white water,
and the Winter skies are mine
The landscape washes clean, and starts to shine
Exposing its design
Droplets on white paper
Anything that comes to mind, he scribbles down
then strikes out every line, still hoping he will find:
The purple twilight sleeping in a rift of clouds
The graceful pirouette of shadows
too fast to be found
But I will take him in my sheets,
and chill his pallid skin
completely sobering his soul,
Streams of ink that roll down swollen pages
(The writer):
Shaking in damp raincoats
But the final draft is mine
The pencils break
and ice pours down my spine
A Sisyphystic climb
Dodging the dark downpour
Thunderclouds inside my head
Distracting from the words that I need said
The writings to be shared:
The purple twilight sleeping in a rift of clouds
The graceful pirouette of shadows
too fast to be found
The sky may try to melt the flesh
Resolved into a dew,
but there lie words beyond the man
and the grasping hand brings pen to paper