A polished, old inkwell sits spritely stag, ready to give everything it knows. Its blood breathes brilliant carvings of words, its sight blinded to the next encounter.
The tip of a quill c h i p s a w a y a t i t s h e a r t, but it never b l e e d s where it shan't, And even though it's shattered before, there's nothing a little mending won't fix. In bustling lives we often forget what we're handed is simply a privilege, and where there's give, there's take, inevitably it's easy to cleverly take for granted.
Consistently s l o w from brim to bottom but as long as you keep dipping your phrases, you must remember that eventually what's e d. m e p l t l y i will need to be **f