Does nothing come to mind, the ink of pen

Does boast a soul; no soul inside the stroke

Does break the static dune of flatness when

The pen doth write without the ink from soul.


As sky of puffy cheeks and curly cloud

Does darken out the sun, the heavens begged

To douse the crispy wrinkles, tears to shrowd

And mask the truth, no sobbing from the dregs.


The paper soaks the black as thirsty dirt

Cannot it speak or see or taste my mark

My stream, thus shallow, runs aground, inert

Pretends to listen, empathize, embark.


To share be not a choice to make within;

Invisible to all; so few to win


3 thoughts on “Invisible

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