The Inkwell

 

There are stories within the inkwell.  There is a large assortment of words, and odd bits of punctuation.

To peer inside it might seem simply as dark, black liquid, but it is so much more.  There are thoughts floating around in there.  Ideas, some serious, some silly. 

There are reports and letters, greetings and signatures.  Inkwells are more than magical, they are an endless supply of thoughts that can cover great distances.  There is a blend of feelings that sometimes experiences the poke of your pen, as it dips down into the pool of potential ramblings.

 

There are stories in the inkwell
and a light beneath the bridge,

There are things all green and fuzzy
in the back part of the fridge,

Eerie sounds from empty rooms
with oceans full of boats,

Some tales within the inkwell
should be played on lower notes,

Movement in the shadows
where sound should never be,

is quiet in the light of day,
for nothing’s all we see,

though stories fall upon the page
should I not even try,

words keep flowing through my pen
and yet the ink's run dry.