Burn

Bleached in the grains
of paper were the words
I could not write, the lone
verses lost between space
and a hardened emptiness
of emotions, where lurking
behind the daze of summer
the truths could not spring
about, falling in line to the
repetition of abandonment
between ink and parchment;
my freedom buried inside
the softest touch of autumn,
where the troubles of defeat
can smolder in ash, leaving
behind my heart in ink stains.

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