Ink

Ink by Diana at The Wandering Armadillo. No one builds a moment with imagery better!

The Wandering Armadillo

you find my words at their crumbled end

powdered syllables tumbled

from cracked lips

smudged ink stains paper

flecked with fools’ gold

mordant mildew and dank mould

you open your mouth to speak

and the air is winter

forming icicles of perennial

participles

going, going, gone

i hear

and the sharp nib scratches

as ink runs clear

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