Vortex Pen

Time could carry weight to the cemetery, To the graves full of lonely blistery bones, To the soil of sinking skin and thirsty blood, To the blathering heart hitting through the tunnel.  If death is charitable and there it is early,  We will conk to earth some fragrant night, Taking these lanes to be mossbacked to a fossil, And shall be happy for the dead reality. If we lose ourselves tonight, we will be dead inside; If we build the hate in mind, we will be extinct from kind; If we carry the grudge in heart, we will be a roiled hearth; If we kill ourselves behind, we will be the lost fossil in the wild.

She is the skipper at the porch with a storm of perfume, Husky are her eyes as the Correa dusky, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her hairs dark as the queen of the night. Then spake to an old sailor, "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And tonight its blur, we see! I pray thee, put into a port, For I fear a hurricane." Sharper and deafening blew the wind, Gales from the northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like a cleanser. Down came the storm, The vessel in her strength; It didn't shudder her, unlike a frighted steed, She just wrapped the storm in her sea man's coat. She lashed the helm, all stiff and strong, With all face turned to the skies, The lantern cutting through the blurry sky, And she fixed the storm with her glassy eyes.