This wasn’t written for love.
No breakfast was served.
It wasn’t written for faith.
Nothing has changed.
He is still who He is.
This was written from the wells of a dark enclosure
The fist sized organ-
meant to circulate blood and emotions.
Now it pumps out pitch black goo.
Thick with words and ideas to be penned down.
Free of strings and attachment
That will hold it down.
These are the words of an INK HEART.
