An Ink Quill

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An ink quill.

They are black lines, black blots
They are spilled, liquid metal

Thick like tar, like clay.
Sticking to shoes, leaving footprints behind
like grey gum
tiny ink prints - smudges - a record of rubbed ink.

This is our mark
our silent protest,
written in bold.

This is the ink in our palms
in the cracks of our rusted fingers,
stuck like a tunnel
where the pen should fit.

We are the restless
the thoughtful
and we only exist inside our minds.





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