Spilled stairs
My brain is always three steps ahead of my fingers
and my soul is three steps ahead of my brain
I find my fingers bleeding
from the letters scribbled across veins
and tea spills the river of dawn
across the stained night
The curtain falls on the act
I seem to have missed
or stumbled into,
wichever is wich
They say my words will always be words
no matter the realites they take and look over
"The ink is no soul" the editors croon
and I simply say because,
theirs no soul in you
soul can be ink
or soul can be ash
but you may never know because we all decided past
decided the words,
or the sweat,
or the grit,
the clings to the life that soon will be missed,
for words can not fall
if there is no step
and flowers will grow
before they are met,
life is all words,
and life is all steps,
but don't take my versus to heart
for I may not have happened yet