Running with a Pen

I see traces everywhere.

With so much detail in the mark I fear self-control is out of reach.

I am caught in the middle.

I do not know where to start? Left, right, up, back, around the bend?

There are traces everywhere.

I see a young man on my left, I start there and tell myself.

"I follow his trace until I think I know enough get out of this track."

I wrote about his love and his heart break, that was good to make me turn right.

There are traces everywhere.

On my right I meet an elderly.

I follow her trace, write about her joys and her pains and her children and her visions, that was good to make me turn back.

I think I know enough to get out of this scribble.

On my way I am drown in a canvas.

I feel a bit of blue with a hint of greenish yellowish inside an almost red, that kind of red that says Paris. The bottom was flowing with shades of grey and purple sort of pinkish maybe even orange busting with light.

So I wrote that down, that was good to make me go around it before I get confused.

Around I find a stranger on a trace.

I ask him where he is going and he says he is following a trace out of the page.

The stranger was good enough for me not to write a thing.

Like me he leaves no traces just follows them.

Like me he runs with a pen that marks everywhere but the writers heart.

Like me he tells stories.