The Garden Bleeds

I never knew a love like this. My pen, she beckons me with whispered longings...wanting only, to scribe the promised fortitude found while exposing me. She searches; she walks, as I walk, straight into me: into this far away temple, unkempt, within me. The pen knows this jungle of a heart, and won't let it be. Seeking to plant a garden for scorching days, and a fountain of promised wishes. No more aging temple, no more ravaging jungle. It's an ambitious longing of this pen, for I, you see? Incense of the gods, diffuse, as my pen walks into me. A temple of the past, awoken now, to the fragrance of several tomorrows: a fortitude of beauty's enduring poise. Every line on these palms, she exposes. Each line, composed of an eager tale, bleeding. See this love of the pen, for I; see the blood of my mind's eye. On paper, hard at work to bust these veins, I let love shine through, holding her with a bleeding palm. I bleed the incense of the gods, now. I see tomorrow's promised wishes, now. My veins broken, and my heart throbbing; I know love for this pen, for she has drenched me in blood. I work hard, tilling the garden, as she pours the incense in the fountain. I am now tomorrow's promised wishes. I am now blood. I am the incense of the gods. I have been exposed: exposed to love.