At least I can still write poetry.

I heard you cry
“a nameless slave!”
Up to a bone-white sky.
And upon a perfect canvas, I
Could try to rhyme and sing
But it is not my inclination
To make light of what you cry,
Only how.

Your hand is cold and distant, feeling
Only nips and tucks, and needles
Sting but you flinch not and I
Could try to punctuate your walk
But I don’t which way to go,
Only how.

Your voice is full of cracked brown leaves
That drift in flickering mirrors that
Reflect your inner eye, and could I
Shatter glass, I would. I could
Destroy your sense of time.
But hands reach out to hold me
Cradled near the wheels turning,
And I cannot make sense of why,
Only how.

“Laugh,” you say, “and let the spectrum
Spill into the lake you dammed
With damns and steel words so I
Was left to climb up on my own.”
But it has never been my wish
To shackle you to history
That washed up long ago.
“Teach,” you ask. “Not why,
Only how.”

And so, I reply.

Ink is a dream
In colors that bleed
Across every seam
And around every creed.
When you paint it in gray,
Skin rubs it away.
But the ink remains.
The ink will always stain.

(This is old, if old is four months old, but I like it.)