The Death of a Writer

The bottle of ink tips,
And I slip my finger in
Onto the filled up bubble,
Watching it splatter the ink.
I lift my finger pad,
Watch the drip drop down
The spine of my fingertip.
Like a teardrop it falls,
Like blood it stains,
And my hand becomes a bloody mess.
It pools in my palm
Like a little pond.
In the middle of a starry night,
The black pond has company
Of a pen that licks up the liquid.
A feather drops in from the sky.
I’ve heard a caw before,
But not like this,
And so the clouds drop,
My body hunches over
And the ink fills
Where the air has left my lips.
The man holding the gun walks away.

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