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Anna Romano Poem
Ink.
Black as both the crow and the cat that Edgar Allen Poe wrote of.
Ink.
More meaningful than you might think.
Words penetrate our hearts and minds, but
ink does both and sinks deep within and between the pages, binding, and lines.
Ink.
Dark and mysterious.
Yet clear and concise.
Ink.
Hurtful, yet helpful.
A never failing flicker of light.
Ink.
A tool, a hobby, the hearts design
A love, a passion, a joy and a show of affection, rejoicing, celebration and of all that is mentioned and more combined.
Ink.
Man's gift, man's privilege, man's pot of knowledge and gold.
Ink.
Both for the young, the aging, and the old.
Ink.
A device to say both hello and goodbye.
A way to rejoice, sound sorrow, or joy.
A way to say I love you, to someone for whom which you care.
A way for them to say the same, six words of miscomprehended compare.
Ink.
A way to convey feeling, to record history and time.
A way to teach us, knowledge that we may not else find.
Ink.
Forever it stays.
Black as night and yet light as day.
Ink.
Our greatest invention, always it must stay.
Copyright © Anna Romano | Year Posted 2011
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