Ink

Have I run out like ink from a pen?

Told the last of stories spun with sorrow

Thrown away and not refilled

Like everything so easier

Replaced instead of mended

Such a waste

Sometimes it feels or must be like a fallen tree

Burned or even possibly repurposed

Either way there’s burning cutting

Some sort of reshaping like the table

Passed down for generations

Profit by pain

Night by night a soothing slumber evades me

Token of the attitude to forgive

Which also includes forgetting

Not to mention letting go, which I know

Cuts such contradiction in my soul

I’m bearing

Sometimes I waste time and cut some lines

By wishing entertaining, even hoping

Someday, somehow, we might try again

You be you and I be me and both of us

Will somehow change, but I know better

Hope is vain

Tempting fate to torment now no longer

Something so impossible like us meet again

So absurd like all the little lines

Manifesting boldly on my skin

But never will, and only secretly be bedded

On my heart

Somehow fear of losing my own image

Social circle counselors and groups

I would be admitted for such sin

And even though mere words upon a page

Capture all my rage, I hope they’ll be forgotten

Like true joy

Not that I can’t have it with you

Never missed on joy before we met

But I cannot forget when I have

Almost everything to make me happy

I’ll move but leave behind old salty joy

And never cry

Oh, how much I want to, surely such release

Would grant some solace

I’m so shocked and trapped in unbelief

I hardly notice how I feel

With numbing side effects from recent tales

Written meanly

But I won’t throw away this pen

Somehow, it reminds of something holy

Two souls intertwined means so much to me

Keep you in the facets of my being

Burning like a thousand tall lit candles

Lighting the cathedral of my heart