words are a confederacy of ideas

blue black ink flowing like a dark river on a moonless night carving a canyon in its thoughts

scribbling vermiculate pathways

the whim of some antique pen with a rusted nib

scratching its marks on the papers of history

leaving dust so fragile in its wake

words are strange contraptions indeed

the writer is a lonely bedfellow for a lover

cos the poet is silent as poets are want to be