My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across the page to flow
Like wet paint from the artist’s brush,
And words come in a rush.
Enchanting through the hand which writes,
Bewitched by art, beauty alights.
The script is like a music score
Through which we pass as through a door.
As,mysteriously to you, to me,
The spirits of our hearts are tamed,
By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.
They enter vision quite unplanned,
Like moths to flutter softly round
Fire joined heart and hand.
The pen slows down,the hand goes still
And just as dreams at daybreak will,
They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone.
I almost caught that one.
He said he never wanted to be me again. He asked me never to bury him again None so blind as those who’re on TV. I see what you scheme I’ll catch the late train and be stoned tomorrow Please deceive me,I won’t know The last chance will be a horror Until wrath us do part. Until the penalty’s stark It’s better to have loved the dustthan never to have loved the balls Men are in jars, women are in beakers