The Inkwell

 

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.