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!
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