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Ink

Drip, drip, drip.

The ink, it falls upon the page,
Blotting out words from
A previous age.
To edit, to write, to think, to be,
Wipe away the past with glee.
More ink falls and
Smudged palm wipes,
Smearing ink across old gripes.
To stop and ponder task at hand,
One could say: a needless stand.
Fresh paper and quills,
Or pencil and pen,
One could start fresh,
Ready to begin.
Yet, drip, drip, drip…
The ink, it falls,
Somewhere, lost,
Your forgotten-self bawls.
These tears, they drip,
Much like the ink.
But you know not of this,
That “you” is extinct.
However, no, that can’t be true,
Extinct birds don’t cry,
Nor, then, could you.
Unaware of this, you watch the ink,
Smudging and smearing,
Not stopping to think.
Easier paths to cleansing exist,
Drip, drip, drip:
All clarity, dismissed.

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Like the poem? Share it. Then check out these other great pieces.

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