The inkwell has been dry,
the words have been atrophied,
the will and vigor sapped,
by the mourning and grief,
constantly tolling like the
alarm bells at the city gates.
The metaphorical paper
on which I write is yellowed
and stained by disillusioned
tears, bitter coffee and comforting whiskey;
this paper; crumpled and thrown into
an angry heap near the trash.
I’ve rung my fingers,
I’ve tussled my hair,
I’ve cringed and gasped,
I’ve crossed and uncrossed my arms,
I’ve curiously furrowed my brow
so many times it’s a wonder I
look anything like myself.
There’s a different level of
hurt being explored,
the depths of which I’m unsure of,
it’ll take a spelunker of a exceptional skill
to get the bottom of this abysmal pit,
and return to the surface, changed.
But all that; all that needs to be done,
the milk has been spilt and there’s
no crying about it.
We can work through our profound
sadness and disappointment, with
calcification of the truth in our deeds,
in our actions and by our virtue.
No tyrant, or dictator, or self-aggrandizing
narcissist can ever truly diminish the passions
we hold so dear and to the liberties that we’ll
have to fight for, again, and again. The cause
of Freedom is greater than the depths of
our despair and those of us willing and able will
wipe our runny noses, wipe away the tears from our cheeks,
and steel ourselves for the next great challenge.
Liberty, freedom, and the fight
will refill the inkwell and the words
will flow and the pages will fill.
