Through the stroke I come alive. I capture every gargoyle and seraphic moment, For I deem it treacherous to forget what your eyes behold. I sketch a primadonna replica, her voice frozen in static, waiting to curtsy for the beholder, channeling your wolf-bred imagination Beneath your calloused hand, we sweep the page in unison. We almost slip away, our toes dipping into that scalding, euphoric, grumbling hot spring, where every ache is soothed Every line I scribble upon that pouring day, when memory has been thoroughly soaked through. Follow my scent, and memory, wearing the form of words, is yours again I have spared you the albatross of being gullible, for I am the guardian of your treasure Seek me, and knowledge is yours to wield, to repel, to rekindle, to burn, to do as your heart alone decrees. I shall keep everything you regurgitate until the day you must stomach it again Behind bundled whites, through a palette of lush-borne thought, I behold the Winged Lion I breathe Venice I belong not in frugal hands, but in ferreting ones Keep me sharp, and I shall share your frenzy with an ash-toned world that craves a line of black to complete its warped horizon Advice from a carbon whose roots are etched in wood.