That night, I pledged oath
to the child with poetry fingers
and melodic lips that tend to sing
the pain out of a madman's soul.
The child breathed in the ink
and sucked it in like morphine mist.
It burned tattoos through that beautiful blood;
sweet memories that never seemed to exist and
hopeless doses of eerie hope.
Somehow, a new world was created and
the child planted fresh daisies
between its creamy, thick pages.