The pen bids me write
Like fountains bid water soar.
Pages of Platonic shadows
May fill bindings of books
And delight decades of eyes,
But reflections are flat,
Caves finite, our sky high.
I will let my ink flow with the majesty of infant cries.
Somewhere strokes wax radiant like human screams,
Assured in self and desperate ends of line.
Yellow water droplets plunked noiselessly
Onto glassy shimmers, reddening roughly
As dancing blues rippled haltingly.
Pink smoke drifts warmly beside crawling grey,
Bumping rolls over smoothly. Then black scratched still.