Poet

On my most open page

I have been hiding.

Beneath the folds

of the library's master -

I sheltered there...

lapped the ink,

dried the page.

How I loved it.

Not a soul

hath tasted the nature

of my organic words -

Though,

they breathe for you.

At sanity's end,
I closed the book!

&, oh,

how it did defeat me to...

I lain,
a misery.

Until paper found my palm again...

Heaven, Haels! My ill-forgotten friend.

I was mistaken.

It is this pen

I live in.