Awake and alive, when comes the night
Alone on his desk, by the candlelight
Scratching paper, with a quill in hand
Time is an hourglass, devoid of sand

His hands, rough and scuffed, like a mole’s
Out flows rivers of ink, lucid, black as coal

Books in piles
Piles of columns
Columns of stories
Stories of a home

A home of tomes

The ink is all there is

Scared and alone I stand, in this imposing doorway
Hand up high, on the knob, watching his internal fray
My bare feet on wood, stuffed bear in hand
His face away, away unseen, a vessel unmanned

Speaking with a voice, not directed at me
The back of his head is all I ever see

Stacks of papers
Papers of thoughts
Thoughts of fiction
Fiction of a home

A home of tomes

The ink is all that remains

In perpetual haste, he turns the pages
Of life, the times, and all the ages
In the pages turned, dried puddles rising and seeping
Puddles of Crimson Red
His hands, cut and broken, his eyes, heavy and weeping

Dripping ink, of the life he led
In the end, black leads to red

Torrents of crimson
Crimson in blood
Blood from decay
Decay is the home

The home of tomes

His ink is all there is
His ink is all that remains

Image by FelixMittermeier from Pixabay

3 thoughts on “Ink: A Poem by Corey E. Toomey

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