The ink seeps in to the fibers of the four cornered wall,
Where the margins shake with each insult.
The four corners that seem to enclose her into a prison,
Are not invincible in the least.
The wood is the paper,
Crinkled and discarded,
And fragile.
The cup is full in emptiness,
Even as the amber liquid exists in a droplet,
Her warden tempts her,
Leering from the cracked confines.
The sinking feeling drives her to oblivion,
And all that has been noted is gone in that instant.
To stand between the dead and living,
Nothing can halt her descent
Down,
Down,
Down,
As her paper thin walls are reinorced with crystals going
Up,
Up,
Up.
YOU ARE READING
Pens in the Sea
PoetryIt falls steadily, piercing the water in a way the hole will never close.
