Poem - The Ink

The ink flows without a dread,

Like a flower blooms in spring,

It rebels and do the unrealized;

It imagines and flies high,

but never stops in a midway,

It speaks the unsaid,

And pictures the morbid and uncanny,

It paints the world difficult to grasp yet enthralling,

Like a flute, it sings the songs of freedom and life,

And its words dance on rhythmic tone, as if some wind unrolls.

It fights for its right,

And unlock the doors beyond our sight,

It never shies away to say the truth,

To side with the justice for the roots,

It unlocks the door of hope,

It sighs the labels with a marked desire,

It creates the better world for all

Where it welcomes all without a biased eye.

It becomes an eye of god,

It fantasizes the world of beauty and hope,

Where everyone is free to articulate,

And dance like as it is a season of rebirth,

And here it redeems all.

It even articulates the complex soul,

It puts a question mark, asks the questions that never been asked,

It explores all the greys,

And shut all the blacks and whites with a ready sight.

It is never tired as it has to tread the long road with an ink to flow;

It never sleeps because it has to write,

the ink always flows, never ceases to die.