Incarnation of The Words

 A little dwell on the pen to enumerate an expression,

To let the ghost be aware of the dark,

Or the dark be afraid of my ghost,

To entangle a hopeless vision and adore,

A million feelings that knock my door.

A poet, they say need the cry of the muse,

But will they ever know the secret of the doom?

For every time, I lose myself into the room of words,

I call upon a thousand spirits,

To guide my hands and spell the right song.

Enumerating through my past,

The affair of the ink to last,

To repeat the same sentiment of my greed,

I befoul myself into a clown.

To paint me in the ink and enrol the aura of belief,

A poet, they say need the cry of the muse,

But who am I to lie?

I can only wonder and host a point of view.

A Feather

I greet an abstract as my name,

The colours as our conversations,

I throw those coordinates onto the space

With a unique emotion obscured and lost,

But to make the words fly to the lake,

I seek an elm from  the faded abstract,

The puzzle resolves through colours of the game,

And the elm burns a desire to resemble their grace.

It burns like a phoenix to rejoice its death with each stroke,

And the abstract reveal a further dimension to the shore.

A lake well driven in my imagination,

Floods the reaches of my universe,

And I lose myself into a thought that hold the converse.

The ink fills my ocean and reflect meanings out in the night.

Where a moon appear over the ocean to read a lost sign,

But it is not too late, till the sun arrives,

And turns the water red, and my mind blind,

With no vision I wake up in a forest,

A forest where I live to drram again.

I am a writer and I need to feel again.