Pen

If you were tipsy and don't remember writing clap your hands.

If I dipped my pen into the chaotic seven seas 

would you feel its vibrations from your realm of creation?

I have submission in its finery.

Tarred ink of the currents cleanse impurity.

Insecurities.

Black mirrors called rivers reflect your script and mine.

Through the bustle of the city your dirge-like words resound.

Oh how they chime. 

And diffuse sin.

A muse for thee. 

Amuse me.

Pique my senses.

Stroke my curiosity.

Vice and virtue fence a battle with you and I

as we prod ourselves deeper into moral paucity.

Our creative hands write; stop to raise a drink, then moves on. 

If we sip under muse cancel not a word, they ring true.