A Fountain of Ink.

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.


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