Why does it get easier to hear your voice,
the call of autumn, the smell of written word upon page.
It seems I have known you for years
bur truth be told I know not who you are.
Butterflies batting their wings against my chest.
Hazel eyes, who are you?
O’ Who am I?
Footsteps that echo in empty corridors,
the eeriness of loneliness, the scent of inquiry.
It seems I will never know you
bur truth be told I could if I tried.
Spiderwebs interlacing around my heart.
Hazel eyes, what is this?
O’ what is life?
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”