Crimson Ink
by Jazelle Handoush
It was quiet where she worked
Scratch of pen
Ruffled wrinkled pages
Blackened blotches stained skin to elbow's edge
But black is not black.
Really red just so deep.
And it drained deathly by the drop.
As Typewriter took all within her.
The keys clattered and she shook,
but not an idle hour passed as
Fingertips flew for freedom
The story she told by type was not her own
Yet it lives as it is
By the forever fading ink
That brings life to pages
A breath which begins at covers bound
And ends at the word the same.
The words, created by this crimson ink
Gives life as it takes
She let her pen and page
Be the voice heard cry
But ran out of ink, no more
To write.
Copyright 2011 | Jazelle Handoush
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