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  All that’s left

  Beyond the satin of syntax

  And pretty of the prose

  Is fresh flesh

  And bare ballads;

  His unadulterated

  Pure poetry.

  Heartbeats earthquake,

  Solidified in each line

  As he spills his vein

  Upon a page,

  Bleeding ink,

  Wondering,

  In a world without chaos

  Where would writers dwell? 

  A virgin to variance

  Sumptuous tongues

  Structure into an exquisite

  Palate to please the deprived,

  The starved of delicate

  Ambrosia to arouse

  Masterpiece formulating fingertips.

  A scribe stripped

  Of heavy attire

  Sewn by grimy hands;

  The unjust judgment

  From a abstracted society

  Too concerned with what’s seen

  To see

  Truth

  In artistic certainty.