Ink

The truth of a good poem lies in its ink
When they cleave me in half with a willow-bough axe
My innards shalt not lie bloody but black and ready to be wrote
To write of Helen I burn
Olive branch and sapphire and gold silk into ash
Pour in white wine and let sit in moonlight 
Write with a fine-feathered quill

 

ZoeBee

VT

19 years old

More by ZoeBee

  • 1893

    It was just a fluke that I happened to see

    The ghost of a girl in 1893

    I didn't think much of her, tried to ignore

    But then she came 'round in 1894

    A spirit was not something that I had wanted

  • Papercuts

    Did you know that, when you wrote me, I was made of papercuts

    That I was ink and glue and wax but mostly, I was papercuts

    Did you know that, when you read me, I am made of memories