INK

From the shadows of my needs
A tall haunting figure approaches
Wielding a black ink fountain
He begins to speak.
 
Script flowing from his whip
On the pages, the shrieking storm
Of time flows out, pouring a never
Ending stain of blood on the floor.
 
Words curled around his tongue,
The man of old begins
To weave ice in threads
Bringing you to his ends.
 
Enter the labyrinth he presents
A void of lovely comprise.
In the lost times
Of a word so fine
We live our lives in a lie.
 
His words are forever
Permanent marks on a canvas
Forever my body shall be thine.
 
Print within the dotted line.
 
- A R McRae

This is a old poem written back during either late high school or early college days. It was most likely written on my iPod.