Inklings of LanguagesMature

empty
containers
of ink
litter
my world
throughout.
used
or hopeless
find them
and think
"God!
I
can write
again!"
but
it's empty.
depressing
and disappointing
calligraphy walls
and grafitti floors
oil doorways
and guache windows
things flourish
and bloom
all across
this Earth
seas
of words
begging
through streams
falling leaves
of canvases
that peak
mountains
all of this
like
the Zembra
striped whale
with
the polka-dot
tail
questions arise
of Fantasia like tales
and planets
to explore
Suddenly
ink
fills the containers
spread
through the world
longing to tell
their stories
yearning
to find
the one
that speaks
their language

The End

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