poetry

What is to be done.

Where is the work to be found?

We come out of the house and look around for it. We search the stables and garage, surely it hasn't gone far.

My pen. My pen. It was just here, full of the ink of thoughts. Did it drain whilst I was filling it with my idle mind? Devil's plaything am I. Flay it on the drawing board! Let's see it's veins and beating heart under a microscope. There it is! Yes! The ink was inside this whole time!

I stab into it with thirsty nib. I scrawl hastily while it is still fresh. The ink will dry and become tacky, but this, this is still flowing and fluid. There isn't yet the hesitation.

There is an element of dedication. A pent-up desire that eschews the world in favor for auto-cannibalism. When does it become more than a diary? Must it? Look here. Who let this one in? The ink becomes tacky. The paper has something to say, now. It did before, but now the ink is sinking in and pooling around the natural textures of the paper. And the paper has feelings about all that.

Ink in it's pure sense would be the endless night, not with a speck of light, unable to be viewed. Would it ever dry? Would I ever know? The very act of placing it down, temporalizes it, and begins the countdown. It becomes tangible and therefore, able to be reduced.

#poetry