The Ink Flows Black
The ink flows black across this page,
as my pen becomes scribe to thought.
Expressions which I try to gauge
and translation now must be sought.
What was asleep is stirred awake.
The ink flows black across this page.
What of this will my pen now make,
like a key to unlock some cage?
Perhaps the time has come of age
for me to free the things I keep,
the ink flows black across this page,
as I let surface things once deep.
Tell me, from where do these things come,
as feelings with thoughts now engage?
My pen is there to capture some,
the ink flows black across this page.
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