Ink Puppet
Here is the bottle
and here is my feather
and here I sit
watching the pen glide across the parchment
across the page
spilling ink and
aware of the endless battle of words
and limitation of space.
My life is filled with words I cannot take back
nor want to...
They cannot be erased
They cannot be washed away
Not permanently
But sooner of later
My chair grows warm
the ink dies down
and the next page lay blank
waiting to be filled
with my own, personal source of ink.
So, I brace myself
with the comfortable habit of
gliding my pen, like a feather
Across the page
And spilling my tears into words.
I live in the world of words.
Breathe in the colors of ink.
I am, and forever will remain
Ink’s Puppet.
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