a pen that bleeds ink on pale sheets which morphs to shapes and gradient fields into a notebook I bound in black embossed with names of my once summoned saints but the ones in need the ones we need are always coming back a golden shield shines and reflects but wasn't built to parry all hits to protect a vulnerable spirit in a fragile shell or a thought in your head you've never meant to tell I feel haunted and I blame everyone around when I should blame myself instead for a thousand reasons which I can find written down in a book I wrote myself And when I cross the last border (from the once in need) and burn this last meaningful bridge (from the once we need) I will finish the last chapter (and they will never ever come back again) and reach the final page of this manuscript then I will just close this book... carve my name in it's spine and dare one last look and for the memories of my futures' past there's this shelf; high enough for my regrets to rest