For all riddle spilled,
He sat there to bleed
In Dark red shapes:
Making words and phrase
Upon clean white mass.
Perusing the spilled,
and the endowment.
Though,
Screeching something loud,
Pen and paper fail,
To shape words of heart.
And always, as always,
He leave it as a question,
For reader to be cautioned.
His Resultant is an unsaid,
Never gonna be limbo.
Again,
For others wasn’t there,
To listen through his soul –
Heart spoke to head,
Paper spoke to pen,
fingers danced to Screech.
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