Scribbling,
My heart onto a white leaf,
(more like a paper)..
Ink that is more magenta than black..
A jerk, and a spill,
More like an ejaculating mind,
Evolving bubbles of ideation,
In a way sprinkling dew on a hyacinth..
Oh! My pricking conscience,
A sigh, louder than the growling soul within,
I write,
May be for the crown,
At the end of a labyrinth..
As it seems..
I owe..
