Ink that trembled upon the vellum's vein,
A pulse so perfect no heart could feign.
Each stroke refined to the finest craft,
Revealing too much, like a final draft.
A truth so open, no eyes could see,
A thought so true, no vessel could sink.
A voice so pure, no mouth could speak,
A melody at depths no ears could link.
It spoke too much, it showed too much,
Too much for any mortal to think.
Crystal clear, a conspiracy of the mind,
Giving you little or no time to think.
He sealed its breath with a broken hand,
And fed it directly to the flame's command.
The ash rose slow, like guilt unlearned,
As he wept for the poem he burned.