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Ink
- Vanessa Muellers
- Feb 11
- 1 min read
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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