Isn't it odd that a bunch of
glue is the adhesive force
of the author's imagination
tumbling around the pages?

Without such thing,
the words manifesting themselves
in the stars are simply floating
away at the whisper of the wind.

Fly, fly, fly a                w               a    y
to the oceans,
bleed your ink of
despair dreamt at 2
in the morning, scrambling
out of the bed to quickly
jot down your nightmare,
to use it to bend and shape to fit
the language barriers and
under the word count of