Composition in Fire

Nothing to say now,
Only the grieving trenches of lead on paper
Control the rhythm of my blood
This pencil should be a guiding torch, not a weapon
I'm grateful for the loyal presence of the paper;
The unchanging stamp of blue veins on white canvas
I feel jealous of the blue lines' consistency
I'm afraid my veins are not as uniform
For I can still see the blood boiling and convulsing
Trying to escape from the sheer. My skin.
I though that when the paper sensed
The raging inflection of my heartbeat,
It would flee and not glance back
I still sense the fire at the peak of my lead,
Wondering at the strength and stubbornness of my silent canvas.
I will go now and leave the fire here,
I am not the one to hold it.

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