Screaming echoes beat like battle drums
And trigger a sparkle of such lively fire.
As thoughts condense and align their arms
Thoughts await their sacrifice, their fate so dire…
Driven in a boiling machinery of war, they feed
The beast inside the soul’s deepest, darkest pit:
The fire waiting to light up the being in need
To release its sweeping rage, the gate to hit.
And this huge energy courses from the mind
Onto the liberating hand, which by a strike
Of a pen throws all those forces so aligned
Setting up their strong formation, pike by pike.
And in that wall of dark straight lines of ink
Lies the key to the cornerstone of one’s soul
Those little stains, so combined, in paper sink:
The purged thoughts of a never-reached goal.
For arrows of energy set the mind ablaze and may
Make down the matrices of one’s feelings… Still,
They won’t steal all that matter, left in dismay
To gaze upon that puny copy in ink, until…
Until walls come crashing down and the drums
Go silent, the fire dies out, the gates close down.
And the only proof of that great energy comes
From some stains which in ink the paper crown.