Another Ink

We cried over spilled ink That pooled into the ridges of parchment, Which held words we wished were made Of the same gold as the sun’s rays. We desired to melt it down, To pour it into an inkwell, That we’d nearly fill to-the-brim, To store it, So, like idiots, we could use it To write of the silver lining That remained.   Written by: Fin

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