AN INKWEAVER'S HYMN
They are not my friends, nor my foes
Lying and coaxing me, into their realm.
I've fallen into the deep into the clouds
Falling upwards towards the white sheet
And dancing steadily there.
Words sprout color
And my fingers are the soil.
They are not darkness, nor are they light
Surrounding me with their soft whispers.
I've traced my journey until the end of ends,
Flying downwards, spiraling, spinning
They catch me with loving contempt
Words perform acts of awe
And my fingers, are the ringmaster.
They are not my lovers, nor my rivals
Filling my eyes with a dusty, grey haze.
I have dove into the shallows, resisting,
Straining against the weight they hold
And breathing in their burning air.
Words escape in secret.
And my fingers are the door.
A SONNET TO THE HEAVENS AND THE SEA
High is the firmament above the ground.
The clouds roll through and onward in their path.
Since purer blue can nowhere else be found,
The air is soft and gentle winds will laugh.
Upon the water is a gentle tide
The sea can one day bleed into the sky.
In the depths, life begins to slowly thrive—
Soft blues and greens flow, starting to collide.
Dancing rhythms in the moonlit water
Into the ocean's unforgiving side.
Storms will rage, the tender peace will fail
Lightning will flash, the war will soon subside.
The moon is shifting all the tides below
The sky and sea will be eternal foes.