Blood & Ink

2015-06-03 20.28.33

Blood & Ink

Drip. Drip.
Blood and Ink.

Tapping the end of a firm green – sharpened – stem against the brim of the pool of deep black ink.
I prepare my makeshift quill for its purpose.
Bottomless. In it’s empty-full darkness.
The pool of ink holds together countless threads of words that have yet to be sewn together. My needle like tip pierces the surface only to return with not much more than a kiss.
My hand grips the stem.
Decorated with its thorns across its body.
They cut into me.
The embodiment of the words, yet to be written.
Drip. Drip.
Blood & Ink.
Writing with a Rose,
Faced with the deep, mournful redness of a dying rosebud.
Soaked with the redness of a different kind.
My life.
No less mournful.
Stories, poems, novels and scribbles.
Written. Rewritten. Written.
With a Rose dipped in ink.

These things die,
You know.
Roses. Make only makeshift quills.
Over time,
The dull brown of the once gentle petals replaces the redness once carried.
Her thorns – though – are as sharp as ever.
They are,
No less mournful.
The ink remains in its empty fullness,
Holding countless threads of untold stories together.
With life not yet dry in my body-
Thorns cut into me.
Drip. Drip.
Leaving the embodiment of stories, yet to be written.
All I have.
Blood & Ink.

2015-06-03 20.28.33


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