Dry Ink

Jane Taylor, Glyphs Member

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All the words have been used up

Every thought of sadness has been given

Emotions wrung from a heart

Thick and sloppy with blood

Squeezed into a glass and handed to the devil

Each thought of love has been released

Like doves trapped in cages

Some soar into freedom but others’ wings have been crippled from disuse

Entire novels of loneliness line countless bookshelves

Pages strewn with the same synonyms and the same syllables

All coming to the same boring conclusion – solitude

The blood stained mirrors all scream in the same anger

Each shattered segment has been driven into the side of the writer

Praying to bleed out some pure new thought

The ashes of the burned letters have arranged themselves so carefully to spell out hopelessness

And without exception the tombstones have been written with joy

Bidding happiness in the next life to the owner

Refusing to leave any word for the rest of us

And what remains for these pages and this pen?

What thought can be written that has not already been said?

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