Writing In The Ink Of Souls

My life is like a sentence

With no commas and no end
It runs away
Falling and bounding over itself.

Typos strewn across the hills and bumps,

To make it an impossible read.

No one understands the mess
No one would want to.

The complexities are too great for skimming
And I know you skim.

It unfolds over mountains and into palaces that live

Inside my mind
Acres of stone built high and strong.

Built on words.

Sometimes right.

Sometimes wrong.

Little corrections and notes litter the edges
As if to address the mess

And place more atop

Diminishes it.

A land-field of deletions and removals,

Remaining hidden away
Memories in words red like ink.

Red like death and blood.

Red like a new rose and a fresh sunrise
Red like the hope of a new day.
All wrapped up and tried to be forgotten.

But once the words are written
Letters scratched out in the ink of souls
Once they live inside
They are locked in.
Shuffle and redeal
Making new hands.
But they hide among the letters in the deck.

Waiting.

Waiting in corners and shadows to spell again.
To tie knots to themselves and each other.

Till the color of the neighbor’s yard reminds you

Of the time you slipped in the grass and stained your
Favorite dress,
When you were five.

Till the sounds in the distance make flashes of words

You thought gone

Spell themselves behind your eyes.

So every time you blink,
You see them written there.

Written in the ink of souls.

Written in the language we all know.

Written in the dreams and hopes and fears.

Written in the ink of souls.

Write me in the ink of souls.

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