The pen is shared.
When blue ink, black
And bindings stare
From their shelves
Now label aware.
When his scratch is silent
Against the grain
Of the oak beneath,
Breathing trained.
Is it love you write?
Is it fiction, or horror?
Or is it passive fright,
& quests of life?
These lines that gallop & lunge
The ones you keep on blank pages
The one's that I've heard once
And will publish in a book someday;
They mean more.
More than Christmas to pagans;
More than burlesque to Vegas;
More than the dominant hand that pulls any trigger
More than blankets at night, post shiver.
Thank you for speaking to me in my language.
You have struck every chord, every Key.
I will sing to the notes that you lead.
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