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Ink

Every morning I wake and no one is there,

just an empty void and the crows in the air.

I hide the ink inside my soul

and brandish a jacket, for the dark and the cold.

I look at myself—through obsidian mirror

and yet my thoughts become not one bit clearer.

I think and I think and I think and I think,

yet not even once can I reach back to the ink.

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