For the past two weeks I have been composing a magnum opus of apologies and confessions, all for you, dear reader. But it is not ready to be known. It has taken somewhat of a life of its own, drifting from abstract ideas to concrete facts to snide remarks, and back again to earnest pleas. I do not have control over it anymore. When it is ready to speak, I know it will do so.
But I have neglected you, dear reader, in absentia. And I would like to re-forge our bond with a boon of simple poetic couplets and stanzas that I have bled from my system. I do hope that they touch you in some way, for they are my blood, and blood must never go to waste.
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The pen revives the honor
Of empty shells of men.
O boundless wells of purest ink!
New life is found within.
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Cuts marked in the hearts of men:
Steel and bone and nail and sin.
Open wounds are salted clean
As blood pools on the village green.
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"...and he beheld white shores, and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise."
