I sit
shrouded
in the light
a soft gentle
binding thing
which does not
allow me the
freedom of thought
and I attempt
to cross the lines
fire a thought
into existence
breed an idea
into being,
but nothing flows
from my mind
through the pen
to the page
that sits sparklingly
crisp, pristine
in its immaculate
colorless infinity
a solidity that just
goes on forever...
But in the darkness
sweet dark, I find
brings to mind
and breeds a rhyme
or an idea of intense
volatility, or simply
sentient empathy,
and flowingly flees
my mind to find
the pattern most
effective on the
pristine page,
now marred with
hieroglyphics,
offsetting the
import of the words
the fact apparent
the colorless
has been broken
black blood bleeds
amidst the immaculate
breaks the chain
in twain
and reveals a world
of vibrant beautiful
colors born
of light.