dear pen,
your blood,
beautiful
and unadulterated
is falling
in the leaves*.

this blood
that is
mine
also
is black
or blue
or occasionally
red or green.

this blood,
while the
ball rolls
down the tree
(from which my
life is
constructed),
it is writing
the words
that resonate
about my thoughts.

your blood
that falls on
my leaves
by way of
capillary action
soaking
each part
of my leaf.

my blood;
your blood;
our blood
is the
foundation
of the
foundations
of our
life.

because our
lives are
one thing.
they are the
same thing
and all that
is sustaining
us.

and this pen;
this pen
small
and insignificant
is the sole thing
that allows me
to express
and to have
any feelings.

and this pen;
these pens,
scratching at
the doors of
my heart,
are my children
and my pets.

and because of this
my life is
filling this
inkwell.