I write with no pen,
Just the blood of my fingertips,
That stains the tree’s remains,
With the thoughts of my brain,
And what is seen that is written,
Is not always the reality of the meaning,
But eyes fall for believing what they see,
And form their version of the truth,
And becomes passed down from ear to ear,
From the tongue that changes as it hears,
The stories as they are told,
By the ones that had once read,
That was written on paper,
That was stained with the blood,
That is my soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment