The Ink Asks Nothing
The quiet bargain of art
I bend my soul to stubborn words,
as though the page were stone.
Sweat bleeds between the spaces,
aching for a nod, a crown, a name.
But the ink…
it asks nothing.
It only opens like dawn
on a sky that forgot applause.
If I could rest there…
just in the spark,
in the joy of shaping air into music,
ink into line,
breath into story…
then even silence
would thunder.
Just how I feel when I journal in the morning over coffee. I wonder if my post inspired this. If it is the case than that is the happiest birthday present I recieved today.
Your poem is absolutely lovely.