by Tom Pritchard
I desire a pen made of ashes,
Delicate streaks of destruction,
Dirty the bright white sheet,
Purity wearing remnants of death,
My hand, the executioner,
Craves perfect words from a golden pen,
Momentarily passionate then forgotten,
I never touch the centre of the page,
So I am easily left fumbling and lost.
I light the fire with the very last match,
And dip my finger into the ashes,
Scrawling purposeful signatures,
(Weakening with each repetition),
Across my chest and watch them,
Blown into aging wind by beautiful lips,
As the Wild Man goes grey and sulks.
I stare at the sooty outline of my hands,
Finally visible beyond my daydreaming libido,
They wished for so much but failed,
To build anything but hope.
© The Treacle Well 2013