INK

Ink
A stranger to paper
Black liquid bleeding through its crevices
Disturbing the blank entity that is it's own
Alive
Running across the horizon
Yet always beginning from the starting line
Continuing it's race
To make the paper it's home
Rushing
Full of thoughts
Down the paper
Smudging
Pushing
Bleeding
Sinking
Creating
Beginning as a color
Then slowly evolving into a line
A letter
A word
A sound
Then rushing into our minds
Through the doorways of our ears
To be never ending
Always alive
Always remembered
No longer a stranger
Always returning to the crevices of our minds
To see the paper
To see the stranger
To see the black smudge
Caused by the ink