Wrecked

I feel the flowers blossom through my fingertips dripping with the sweet aroma of prose's perfume. It's pushing through the pain and flowing like blood coming from a wound. Scattered pages in the writer's garden, telling the magical sparrows all of the stories that are being chiseled as a tattoo on my thirsty skin. Etched words in an old book, it has become my oxygen. My lungs gasp for more, shouting into the starry night, give me more of your holy parchment and I promise always to share it. Use me for I am Your blossoming vessel that has been wrecked by poetry.