Death and love and death and love and love and death is all there is holding flesh to bone - bone to breath - to blood.

Words splash out crash out of this inked pen.

Descriptions of ideas, perceptions.

Only known to my insides, known by no others exactly as me or I, them.

Still, communication flows, one to the other, believing that we are understood.

Misunderstood most of the time, time tells.

What was grasped or passed over?

Time tells.