Words of verse flow from my pen,
and turn into flowers of ink.
I write and read without any care,
and new meanings spring and sink.

The verse brings heavens to the ground,
and angels to the rank of man.
He denies his heart the freedom to write,
although it screams that it can.

But why this urge to make black marks,
on pristine parchment white?
Why does the star twinkle in the sky,
or the bird delight in flight?

Oh burning hand, rest you now,
lest you kill me whole.
An artless heart and inkless pen,
are bodies without a soul.

To hell with you, you vagrant heart,
from today, face not me!
To which it with blood scarlet writes,
reams of finest poetry.