Soul stirring muse,
The scent of fading jasmine
blossoms as moon beams dance through animated branche.

In the silence
words become runes
beveled into impatient stone
to be carried through time.

demise not by my pen
paint you righteous,
the writer that writhes ink to fire
setting fevers to skin and soul.

Let me paint
the sacredness
of your naked Soul.
I promise
each brushstroke will contain
your Beautiful Truth.

Bodies are like poems, only a fraction of their power resides in the skin of things. Remainder belongs to the spirit that swims through them.

I wake
to an inky night
paper beckoning with
white angel wings
waiting windsail words
I fly to meet my thoughts.