messages in ink

is drama what it is? is it
real? Do we care?
Perhaps that's why it's drama.
My head
is a lake
a shimmering tree
rippling with present and thoughts
of speech.
My hands are full of ink.
Drama, the worm, brown
sneaks it.
Instead of polluting the lake,
it is a pretty, ugly rock
jutting up from ripples turned into waves.
A big, funny-looking bird sits in the tree.





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