if the ink kept flowing still,
even when i'm gone,
the parchment would've worn and will
keep bleeding until dawn
a meek and mild fawn,
our hands intertwined, i see
love, but can it be?

and the ink was like a void,
endless, it drew me in
strong, yet slim and coy
it didn't end or begin;
the places it has seen?
everywhere, it seems
from stars to broken dreams
it never lets go of me

if it had stopped again,
it'd surely be a mistake
but i'm lying now, my friend
and these feelings no longer wake
our hearts, why must it ache?
yet, not for love, you see
to be adored and be set free

my lamp was like the sun
the paper, but a moon
they both depend on each other,
or so, they thought, but soon
sadly, tender moon
knew about the lies
the moon was never needed,
not even in the sky

and things like tumbleweeds,
tangled ***** of string,
express my thoughts in me
but don't even begin
to tell what i think within
it's so messy, yet so clean
my thoughts of shattered dreams

and upon a slender flower,
a tender little stem,
we have undying power
to speak feelings within
a pen glazed in glittered gold
easily has told,
by trickling some ink,
and using fragile strokes,
you can say just what you think,
even the untold.