Scrawl

Short piece about my muse.

i once met a girl

who had more words than she knew

what to do with; they spilled out,

a waterfall of consciousness,

onto any leaf of paper

her slender fingers could reach,

scrawled in the frantic hand

of a dreamer imprisoned



by reality.



and reading her words

was like looking into the eye of a

storm; the centre of something

turbulent, something

breath taking

something i would never truly



understand



but i would love

until my heart was empty