I am nothing more than
ink on a page,
an imagined
entity.
No form to
fill,
other than the nagging
space in a mind,
filled with your
withering dreams and
deluded fantasies.
I do not grow
but age
with time
into the unforgettable
and then unforgivable
when I raid your mind for its sanity,
taking what I find
and turning it into
the perfect delusion
so that we are one and
share the torment
written for us in the script.

I am the master
of deceit,
making you
care,
making your tears
spill from you
while your emotions
leave me unfazed,
wasted, in a
burning abandon.

Sadly, I do not
change,
and you know this,
accept it,
your heart pounding
in a silent
mourn. And I bid you

welcome the silence,
for I say to you
as once before
when the words held
your heart,
I am nothing more
than the ink on a
page, speaking
through you.

BMH740@Hotmail.com