Ink
The ink of storms wreaks havoc on the unturned page.
Pulped filaments flop face-lessly before eyes once warm, yet frigid cold.
Daring not to expect much to read or write,
I stare blankly from the aughts of night.
Stars are but memories from books,
Overshadowed by polluted distances, smudged by the burn of business bustling below in the barrel.
Fish flop, and folios fold upon themselves, as the Sun circles this tip-toed Sphere.
My mind seems diagonal to the lines within this verse; un-unitarian against the it that I am not of.
Am I the ink?
The reader?
Or do I draw its lines?
I've not felt the sense to be, see, nor write, so what is it that am I?
A passerby upon the paragraph, pretending to play in presents performed en troupe.
Pathetic.
Copyright © Beej Simrov | Year Posted 2025
|