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