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Another Ink Arts 

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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