rolling, cross & dot
spilling tea & i
don't bleed through paper
as i once had done
so many pains ago
(more) in rest upon my new-claimed
virgin blaring white
'til met with ball point
poignant-sat in thought
to soothe a troubled mind
at the hand of damning ache
as time illusioned
twisting sharp perspective
south on wings
with fifty brush-stroke birds
matches stain of herb-diluted
brew dropped carelessly
'cross, dotting page & i
loop-curl the letters
Lighters, socks, and ball point pens. I know what you're thinking, what do all these seemingly diverse objects have in common? And to that question I'll reply with a second question. How many times have you bought a lighter and lost it? Or put two socks in the washer,(more) only to have one left? Or lent a pen to someone, only to have lost it forever?
My POINT exactly.
Don't lend out pens. Keep your socks together. Have your lighters on a chain, or something. These are the things that make insane people whole again. Believe me. I was(?) one.
"Disharmony is the true name of your Mistress, she who has one sole advisor. The face she dons in public is as familiar to you as it is false, just as false is your notion that four are the Powers that rule. What is true is that one stands alone upon the blood of three, he who wears the mask he made of his old name of Justice. You serve Deceit."
Now I can't read past this point.
I wanted to find and strangle the author of those phrases. While I did crumple the paper in rage after reading it for the first time, I couldn't bring myself to destroy it nor to hand it over to the Arm in charge of me. Instead I shoved it into my pocket and let those words destroy everything I knew about the world.
At first I resisted, I told myself I would find who had put those words to paper and crush them with the weight of the Law.
When I lay down yesterday night, I was still seething. Soon after I was standing again and I'd have killed myself if it could have helped anything. Now here I am, locking a reinforced door behind me to make sure no one stops the world from learning the truth of this note.
Tracing my finger over these words, I notice for the first time they have been written in dark red ball point. Only those in service of the face of Mercy are allowed to use pens of this color.
I brought a notebook and a ball point pen to jury duty with the hope that maybe boredom would force me to start writing the story that had been festering in my mind for weeks. Seven hours sitting in a white walled room, and the pen ran out of(more) ink. I looked down at my notebook; there were no words, only drawings.(less)