#2: Just Don’t Call It A Stain

It is a good justice
That there are no words
For your quiet experience
Those enough to soak a soul
In India ink: cobalt, onyx, crimson.

No crescendo, no epiphany of ages
I’m talking just you and  yourself
Ducking into a parenthesis of
Breath where in the light
You see; you’ve got a
Spreading shape
Where words
Used to
Be.