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Writers
January 17, 2011
An ink quill.
They are black lines, black blots
They are spilled, liquid metal
Thick like tar, like clay.
Sticking to shoes, leaving footprints behind
like grey gum
tiny ink prints - smudges - a record of rubbed ink.
This is our mark
our silent protest
written in bold,
bold.
This is the ink in our palms
in the cracks of our rusted fingers
stuck like a tunnel
where the pen should fit.
We are the restless
the thoughtful
and we only exist inside our minds.
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