Before The Ink Dries

Before the ink dries and the cockerel rattles off his last chilling cries. A poet must comprise somehow to resurrect, compose what has been long hidden many years behind his greying charcoal eyes, his tattooed thoughts an inkblot blood a picture which cuts deep into love. Cuts-deep into his bones and ageing tissue a sterile scalpel twists and turns a sutured wound gapes wide open. He is happy there is daylight between each tusk rib, when his heart finally-is-handled and placed it beats on still in the binding covers of his books. Only for the ink to dislodge a tear a tear held back many, many a year.