Friday, March 30, 2012

Ineptness of Ink

What is this raw and raging thirst?
This graven enemy
That sets itself against my words
And makes a fool of me

What is this savage, silent plea
That rages ‘neath my skin
And claims the very heart of me
In torment deep within

What is this strange and soulful dirge
That mourns the quickened dark
Tracing the tide where echoes surge
Yet never leave a mark

What is this lonesome melody
That whispers in my quill
It is the frozen agony
Ink teardrops cannot spill


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