Red Ink
Whenever I pick up my pen
I think its blood I’m writing in
What starts off as a random thought
Is meaningless until its caught…
By some past experience
Or something I can barely sense
But somehow it will take a form
On paper that I’m writing on…
My enemies become my friend
As each paragraph will end
What was once misunderstood
Completes the next line as it should…
So every syllable it finds
Come together and combine
Not just so the truth is told
That comes from within our soul…
And as I sit again to write
With some wine by candle light
The shadow from my glass instead
Slowly turns black ink to red…
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