Ink wraps its arms around an idea,
Tracing letters that act as messengers
Of hope sent from some remote area,
With defiance towards its challengers.

The ink once it’s written speaks its own voice,
Like a child set free from its parent’s pen.
The pen having etched its lines made its choice
To have its intent not matter again.

Caring for all these children in my head,
They mature the moment that they are penned.
As confidently as they each have fled,
They don’t reflect on me as I intend.

Each word is a child that I have let go,
The ink no more under the pen’s control,
Out in the world seeing what I don’t know,
But into these children I wrote my soul.