Ink Marks on his Fingers

This is a poem on a poet, his life and his death. Perhaps we are all poets, all story-tellers, telling our own life story...

Ink Marks on his fingers,

A running river of blue:

Swirl into delicate patterns,

Staring but smiling at you.

 

Ink Marks on his fingers,

The Remnants of his pen:

Spurting out inspiration,

Every now and then.

 

Ink Marks on his fingers,

What remains of his glory.

Piece together the picture,

Telling a great story.

 

Ink Marks on his fingers,

Show his dedication.

Telling tales of great wonder,

From his imagination.

 

Ink Marks on his fingers,

Splatter on the page:

Tell of love and sadness,

And his built-up rage.

Ink Marks on his fingers,

Memorable inky blots.

Uplift an adult despite of age;

Sooth babies in their cots.

 

Ink Marks on his fingers,

Have become more far apart.

The words ripped from his hand

Like love from his heart.

 

Ink Marks on his fingers,

As they lie bent and broken

Recalling poems he has penned;

Great imagery he has spoken.

 

Ink Marks on his fingers,

No, his hands are clean.

His heart is cold and empty,

No imagery can be seen.

 

No Ink Marks on his fingers,

No more to suppose.

Washes his hands ghostly clean,

And brings his poem to a close...

 

The End

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