My ink is alive,
It’s breathing, it’s humming.
It walked right out of my paper,
And held my sore hands.
It’s alive, I swear.
It dragged me into the world.
Where the lines became my streets,
And the words are now called home.
“My dear child”, it whispered,
So gentle to my ears.
“It’s time that you see the beauty
Of all the lands beneath your fears”.
“Don’t let the darkness own,
What does not belong to him.
For those letters you’ve engraved,
Are the limbs beneath your skin”
The ink is alive, it talked to me today,
And it told me this world,
Will eventually fade away
But those words on your paper,
Will speak to you once more
And assure you that your pain
Will no longer make you sore.
The ink slowly died,
As it dried beneath my wrists.
It has become part
Of a world that now exists.