Ink (poem)


It is an artform that
sings life,
singeing every fibre deep into
lifelines, calling for
vessels journeying
to shore.

They rise and fall upon
blood streams
crimson to the pain
sharp and swift, painting
a history
indelible to the touch.

A dark ink imbues
the parted canvas,
sinking heavily into the abyss
before settling on the
surface of
a pigmented image.

The skin is a fragile coast
that anchors
new discoveries to the past;
a beautiful wound
that reveals
a reason to


— The Finicky Cynic

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