I was in love with the pen,

tasted of the passion of its ink,

sheltered in a pile of books,

as dusk paved way for the brink

and of the ferns’ grip divide gave way to dawn’s shine with rust glory

reflecting the wreckage of a love affair upon pile of worn slates and heaps of torn papers


its the end of a love affair

bloodshot eyes of Shanghai’s caligraph

broken heartpiece of her polygraph

ink arsenal filled with red cries

with leaks from its table cask plundered by its grapheme.




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