I’ll die owning a thousand pens
lost between pages and papers that searched new words
better words, deeper thoughts.
You told me something, you give me clues
you give me magic.
Last night I was saint and sinner –
you came forward and I came to know myself
a bit more
though dynamically unintouch
Yesterday, you knew I knew.
You knew I knew too little.
You knew my struggle.
You find the open wound.
Let those lights in;
Brighter than a desert sun.
Dark ones walking home aimless.
We are one and owners of a thousand pens.
We die owning thousands of pens
found between pages that sought souls,
better words; answers, not clues.
I told you almost everything
i knew. i knew.
And you did; you do.
You give me clues – not answers.
When day fades into night
I’m saint and sinner.
When time shows its shiny knife
we will protect each other.
owning a thousand pens.
between pages of sentences not finished
not . . .
Tell me something.
You tell me something.
Last night, lost saint and sinner searching
not reckless, but mapless still.
. . . owning a thousand pens.