Ink

The gift of imagination is an incredible one. To think, in all of creation, we are the only species that can construct within our mind's-eye a world so vivid, we ourselves begin to believe it exists, even though we are aware that we are the ones who constructed it. Like little God's that have fallen in love with their creations. The beauty of imagination is that it is not grounded in reality; its nature is nonsensical. How can we display images made from nothing on an immaterial surface that only we can see, and not with our eyes? The beauty of words is that we can use them to share with others this nonexistent world so that they too can fall in love with it, though maybe not completely the same world. Imagination provides a sanctity inside us - Where we can go to escape, to recover, to make new, and to make right. It is something no one can steal; something that comes built in, and it will always be there to comfort you. A place where you can find and be one with yourself.

An... "inside corner".    


Ink

Would you kill a photograph 

in that black place beside your inside corner? 

A bullet in the coffin

and a tear inside a jar.

With flowers on the fire,

you untied the noose and set the vampires free:

"Blood, blood everywhere, but not a drop to drink."

You thought for a moment, 

'Should I forget?'

but then you forgot
and all you could do was remember. 

With a tombstone strapped to your back

and a letter tucked in your pocket, 

you found a hole 

for you to die in.

We had a funeral on your wedding day. 

We read a eulogy and then ate cake.

We sipped blood and snorted ink,

and built the walls around your longing.

We caged in all your unhappiness and unveiled a museum to your heartache. 

We laughed!

Oh, we laughed and cried,

at the thought of how hard you tried, 

in the blank spaces of your inside corner 

where you killed your photograph.

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