I feel the ink fall to the paper,
each droplet as precious as blood.
as words ooze from my hand
which hurriedly tries to capture
a thought, almost absconded from my mind.
The crisp paper quickly swallows the words,
its ego is avaricious.
As it gobbles them up, my mind begins to slow,
drained of the cluttered thoughts
that push themselves to the front of a line,
worse than pushy parents during Christmas at a mall.
These words conjoin, they dance before my eyes,
as my thoughts accent the paper.
It preens and primps with all its detail;
A Sunday hat adornment of human sentiments.
