Sympathetic Ink

You, a glass tear - filled with black oil to stain, to rearrange each thought contained in your metal nib Scratch, scratch the pompous paper and tend to wounds afterwards The thoughts must come! Must flow! And yet you sit. Still. A night with no moon encased in clear horizons. Do you wait for me to taste you? Do you need a catalyst? Must I stain my tongue while I wrangle around in this licorice fit? My fingers know you well. Calluses you've seeped into. And still you sit. Perhaps you need me after all? To lift the lid, to inject the ink, to scratch the page? Do you stare, Oh sympathetic ink? Do not marvel at the likes of me. Waste no time but come to me yet! There are thoughts to be penned so indelible be!