Waiting, and then
a graceful bow of my pen.
Is this the kind of touch
I've been thirsting for?

Reclined in the sun
before the rise of my anima
Ink was the oil,
perfumed and rubbed into my chest.
And now I'm cutting through these streets
with a sea urchin b'neath my breast
Each beat piercing flesh.

Were the sensual motions I've longed for
those of a quill crossing T's ?
Is the hunger I've obeyed
misplaced need for the page?

Time I've burned riding
I should've spent writing.

And now I have
nothing to show
for the burn and flow
but fear of being free
and the blessing of being alone.

And so I, yes I
lay down the toys.
And yes I, weary I
leave the girls to the boys.

My heart longs,
but there will be no rest.
Love must leave
if be there will joy in my breast.

Painting my pictures
in novels and scriptures,
now I let it go.