Pen, Ink, & Memory
I can see that
which you have
buried
inside your soul
there alone in
that tower
most refuse
to climb
Weak, angry, & bitter
beings fumble at
the door
shall I blow
a trumpet like
days of yore
to bring your
sweet embrace to
Protect me from
my own darkness
fear holds
this poet’s tongue
so I am
left only
with
pen, ink, & a dream
or
is it a memory?