He Finally Sleeps

After a countless barrage of 

Hours. He puts down his pen 

Accepting the stains of ink that

Littered his callused hands and

Soaked every page scattered across the bedroom floor.

He simply just stood from that worn chair

And gazed at his heart sprawled across 

A home which now seemed more like a prison

Of ideas confined to a few thousands blotches 

of ink submerged far beneath

the carpet where he now lays

In solemn silence.

But after the words quieted and

The wounds healed

The boy rose from an ocean of ink.

And from those exquisite deformities 

And cacophony of displaced thoughts

Reflected an image of the boy

Only he understood. 

I knew though that one day

Those words would finally leave my room

And I could rest my weary eyes

Knowing that they understood as well.