Ink and Skin

Upon this self-known skin, I weave my tapestry of ink—a silent symphony of words etched into the parchment of existence. Each stroke, deliberate and tender, births poetry turned thoughts that breathe.

The quill dances, a partner in this clandestine waltz, tracing the contours of memory and desire. It knows the secrets whispered by moonlight, the ache of unspoken dreams, and the yearning that resides in the marrow of bones.

Each scribe, a conjurer of worlds, dips into the well of longing. They bleed their truth onto the canvas of time, leaving behind footprints of fire. For what is a poet but a wanderer between realms, stitching constellations with syllables?

And so, we write—our hearts aflame, our minds ablaze. Words spill forth like molten gold, forging bridges across chasms of silence. We are alchemists, turning pain into elixirs, scars into stardust.

In this sacred act, we become both creator and creation. Our verses pulse with life, echoing through ages, resonating in the chambers of souls. For every stanza is a heartbeat, every metaphor a universe unfurling.

So let us write, my fellow scribes, for our pens are torches in the night. Let our ink flow freely, binding us to the cosmos. And when the embers fade, may our legacy linger—a testament to the magic of words that bleed and thoughts that burn.

Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer