Bleeding Ink Poem by Solomon Ramakgwa

I clutch it, and it weeps a crimson sorrow,
Exuding grief without the need for force.
Silent, it bides—until the veins run hollow,
Tracing the path of an internal course.
I hold it fast to let the current spill,
Descent of ink upon the parchment's face.
I bleed it dry, and yet I hunger still,
To drain the ghosts that haunt this narrow space.
Though every line is burdened by the ton,
Of crushing debt my heavy heart has owed,
The paradox remains: when all is done,
I feel no weight within the emptied code
The phantom ache that once inhabited bone,
Transfers its ghost into the drying stain.
A symphony of sighs in monochromatic tone,
Washing away the residue of pain.
For every drop that stains the papers white,
A pound of lead is lifted from my breast.
I write until the morning kills the night,
And find in hollowed ink a hollowed rest.