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
