Even if I couldn’t write a thing,
the ringing in my ears,
the hollow in my stomach,
the ache in fingertips,
would be too much not to attend to.
The voices need a companion,
out of this introversion shell I come the best,
when all other life forms sleep.
I’m more romantic,
creative and attentive,
understanding and violent at once,
left to my nightly gluttonous-solitude.
How wouldn’t you like to be caressed by all that,
devoured even by the tongue of my thoughts.
Lay then,
serpentine like with your seduce,
on the altar of my mind,
and muse me for but one more line.
W.E.
lonerloaner 