Should paper exist and ink ne’er appear,
with what could we scribble our thoughts so dear?
Though we hold them precious, blood is too much
for meanderings of the mind, as such.
The paper would to untimely waste go
Never a poet’s soft touch to know.
For a scroll alone fulfills no future
requiting the ink as the sole suture.
A wellspring of life, the pen is the thing
In which one catches the mind of the King.
For paper alone sings quietest praise
to God above without ink’s voice to raise.
That being said, a woeful tale has begun:
a fountain of ink that would ne’er overrun.
The pages presented with purpose and poise
naturally needing a new kind of noise.
The inkwell flows with mirth and delight
beck’ning those who come nigh to just write.
But soft, what tragedy does ink go through?
The whim to write what may be untrue?
Or the fact that though paper was feared
to be lesser, the ink, with haste, disappeared?
Blank pages a waste of time and of space
An ink-less pen left to mindlessly trace
what could have, should have been
in silence’s place.