Yet to title

(A S. Lupus)

Scribbled on my tissue
…paper? skin.
Vortex of words, strings
of letters, swirling, entwining
mixing – creating.
Poiesis. Poetry.
And Silence.
The sound of her wings
written on the body,
the body of my work.

I find a message
not penned nor inked
but bled. Red drops
form the letters.
I am the message,
language streams through my veins.
The logos ignites
our blazing fire.
Above us,
the silence of the stars.
But we,
we are the words.

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