Writing

The contents of my desk remain,

The surface layer of my heart.

The paper glaring, blank-faced,

The mystery, my unknown domain.

The pen nested, between these fingers,

The instrument of my needs proclaimed.
The ink that bleeds through these walls,
The curves and ends of figures lingers,
The voice of silence to be obtained.
The passerby, mandated astute by self,
The dismissal of the expanse, to a small shelf.
The divergent eyes that come across,
The colors of declarations lost.