Ink has spilt from my nib
in a deafening bloom,
bleeding words into black
under rainy march moons.

When the sun sings us songs
by the soft flutter of willow,
my mind is a razor
staring out of glazed windows.

Worlds will soon wilt
under ochre burnt skies,
my skin flaking like leaves
over the bonfire inside.

And under the weather,
whether we want it or not,
ivory drifts will slow us
until the ink must stop.


The End

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