Wrapped In Silk

Upon my desk, within the rolls of written works,
is the soul of one who lives inside my pen;
it is the worth of all creation's worlds,
in life, love, and then;
my friend, all wrapped in silk,
at times resisting emotion's truths;
imprisoned, in walls of pain,
and caught, in the shifting sands of wants;
and in the lusts, for life without life's chains.

When the nights of sorrowing dreams,
evoke a clearing desire;
to truly obtain solidarity,
with the one, who will bring to you an ecstasy;
unlike, no other yet gained,
to mean something to someone searching;
for the twin, within an hourglass of honesty so clear,
and so in tension lit, within my strokes and rolls and point;
your lifeline's twines, you sorely will to find.

If beckoned in words,
to your willing, I can come;
armed with life in love's peace,
not with a sharpened, plunging, sword;
and sing with you a song of joy,
not fearful in guilt of mind;
for more than words, are needed herein,
to bring to life the souls;
of two together, in the lines of writing's works,
to your world, combined as one in mine perchance.

Herein, I gift to you, that penchant glanced so wild,
within your pleading spirits heart.

by Michael Walkerjohn

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