Red Ink

In my drafty tower, I ink on papyrus-

The weather warding off souls like a virus.

There are but two souls, now; his and mine.

Together we write all which is divine.

We seldom see sun through our palace of pages, 

on which I write stories to tell through the ages. 

Then I fall to hypnosis at the touch of a pen:

till he tells me to stop, and to start it again. 

My midnight ink forged a world from the vapour,

which I’d conjured at midnight in wake of sleep.

But be it the candles, the moon or the paper;

the inked lines seemed to crawl and creep. 

But, no, my mind cons me, for my words are just sounds;

written, unspoken, to be laid in the ground.

They told me to rest; to heal wounds in my mind.

He’ll be vexed if I stop; I can’t leave him behind.

So I write, write and write, and the ending is nigh.

He says, “keep writing” but my ink pot is dry.

He’ll vanish like twilight if I do not make haste.

So my quill finds ink with metallic taste.

I stiffen my jaw and I ball up my fist,

as my pen roots itself deep in my wrist.

I have to keep writing, and I’m out of ink; 

I have to keep writing, or he’ll go extinct. 

He lives in and loves in my stories unspoken.

He needs me to write or else he won’t exist.

If he leaves now I’ll be shattered, heartbroken, 

left with only a window latch I won’t resist.

They told me to rest: that I’m losing my mind.

So I’ll stay with my stories, as He designed.