Colors of the Ink


Knowing the trials of sorrow,

My pen dwells in that somber ink,

And being close to isolation,

My pen itself seems a solemn hue.


Yet, I do not wish to seem that way;

I do not with to color all in black,

Running out of pricy ink in such a shade,

Penning all as if the world is done.


In place of pain, perhaps some comfort?

In lieu of loss, perhaps some gain?

In stead of sorrow, perhaps a trace of joy?

Fixed on failure, wherefore is my hope?


There stand the wells of hopeful ink upon the table,

Almost invariably unused.

There, now just a drop, just a simple start,

And more keeps pouring out.


A light in lieu of hazy, domineering clouds,

And some hope and altruistic grace,

And already the picture seems a tad bit brighter,

Already the black has turned to white.


Yet, some black still stains, some sorrow stays—

That burning regret searing the page,

That dreadful fear of man's futility to act

Still seeks to overshadow all this light.


Yet let it hide in the dour shadows of the script,

Let it dwell and retain its somber presence,

For it cannot be erased—no ink ever can in entire—,

But it will no more supercede all else.


I cannot lose all of my past regrets and remorseful follies,

And I cannot guard against the future.

But I can add some sometimes superficial hope to the page

And through the mix obtain the perfect hue.

And though there is some blackness there, 'tis sadly true,

The dour dark of loneliness cannot blot the light of you.