Fountain Pen Blots

A Poem Exploring Conscious Self-Probing

Green life in clay, mortal gods are in play A blue-hued display, large ocean of day The yellow sun sets the nights occlusion Purple ravens in essence, ever closer curdling Tearing thy veil, cast from hemophilic clotting Red heaps of spirit spew across your book Though you never dare take a long dark look Grave robber of lines you’ve stolen from life Fountain pen blots, trickling ink of soul knifed

Core’s eternal winter in frostbites burn With probity don’t slow or slay thyself Weeds still sprout in pneuma’s divine bleached sea Continually peering despite thy feigned piety

Where does Truth show if there is no blood Subjecting the Self to contemptible broods Component construction, no deep-rooted functions As though plains don’t yield beautiful dandelions

Thanks for reading! Ilija Begic

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