Ink Magic

The only magic left to me

Is that of words well written

On the pages that flash before my eager eyes

Filling my mind with distant tales

Of vaguely familiar people and places

Making the supposed real world a dream

Never have I doubted

The power of night black ink

Marching across the whiteness of a page

Like soldiers in an icy labyrinth

For carried in these winding roads of ink

Are the stories of millions told

A thousand different paths tangle

Across the smooth white background

Naming things never before named

And describing things never seen

So many forget

How easy it is

To lose yourself among such wandering lines

As they build forests and cities

Burn empires and raise the downtrodden

So easy

So terrifyingly easy

To wander into forgotten lands

And never return

Lost evermore

Among twisted words on a page

Yet the most intoxicating thing of all

Is the skill to place those ideas on the page

Imprinting one’s mark on the world

The way the ink flows from a pen tightly held

In trembling fingers extended

With their need to write what the mind dictates

That is the magic left to me

The magic of word and pen

Ink and page

Such magic never releases those who use it

Holding them enthralled by its simple power.

Author's Note

It's a couple years old, but still one of my favorite poems I've ever written.
Well that sentence was awkward...

Reviews

[..]

Never have I doubted
The power of night black ink
Marching across the whiteness of a page
Like soldiers in an icy labyrinth

Wow such imagery in this stanza, This is one amazing write here.
I totally loved this write. Simply wonderful 100%