The rich jade of my pen
Bleeds unto the page lying dormant four below.
Bloodied ink stalking line and curve,
Scarring blank faces with staining bullets,
With the burden of my words.
And my pen weeps with murdering immortality,
And my tears bleed with the ink that I cannot use.
Now I slip between each word,
And dodge each mistake,
And feel my way blindly
Through slaughtered legacies, cool ink blacking my fingertips
Until I reach the fourth below.
Faint mark of a letter here,
Transparent promise of a meaning there,
That is no longer a promise, but a cold truth
And no longer a cold truth, but a raped reality.
A forced meaning through tired hands
Unto white innocence.
Two more kills and three more pages
Until the fervent flame
Raging to be written
Is, too, murdered
By the truth she induced.