Before The Ink Dries Poem by Mark Heathcote

Before the ink dries
and the cockerel rattles off his last chilling cries.
A poet must comprise somehow to
resurrect, compose what has been long hidden
many years behind his greying charcoal eyes,
his tattooed thoughts an inkblot blood
a picture which cuts deep into love.
Cuts-deep into his bones and ageing tissue
a sterile scalpel twists and turns
a sutured wound gapes wide open.
He is happy there is daylight
between each tusk rib,
when his heart finally-is-handled and placed
it beats on still in the binding covers of his books.
Only for the ink to dislodge a tear
a tear held back many, many a year.