Like Ink

19244f6205267c01f8a2faec464e4d0a-d37f90v.pngA turn of phrase
So simple
And yet profound
Painted prose
In shades of gray
With muted sound
Stretched thin
Withering in the sun
Like twisted vines
Before they die
He speaks in rhyme
Aged and demure
Words frosty
Ill-tempered as rain
The river rising
Black like ink
Over-running its banks
Until the writing ceases
And the hating begins
Warriors in blue
No weapons in sight
Yet cutting like knives
Carving the phrase
Into sections
Killing the poet
As surely as sin
Against the backdrop
Of societal rules
Bleeding like ink
From black fingers.

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