Funny enough, I wrote this when I had writers' block.
÷
Caught in between the pages of your collected editions,
The words are read and flower, fresh thoughts
Unbend at a benighted hour,
Thoughts of a boy who breathes in dreams
At the window of a dim-lit house
Whose beams lay shrouded in the caps of winter.
His lips against the pane and laying low,
He heaves his breath upon the glass and leaves
Two lip prints that he cuts in half
Deftly, with a stroke of his index as a pen,
To signify that within and that without,
Divided by a window.
These thoughts I find come creeping on
When home alone I sit by fireside
Betwixt two covers of a borrowed book, lined with
Splintered strands caught in the pages wooden grasp,
Marks of a well-remembered time; the mind
Was hardened clay unable to be one impressed upon.
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