We Poets Who Write

We poets who write try to paint the night's mournful skin within words. We poets who write try to recreate the picture of inspiration. We poets who write try to wrap ourselves in twilight.

And we always fall a little short.

The night's feminine arms are wrapped around our necks, and we can still taste her nicotine tongue at the top of our taste buds. But how long has her tongue dwelt inside our mouths, tainting us with her intoxifying affection?

Appearance only tells the outside scars. It is action that tells of scars within. But numb confusion is everlasting.