The Smell Of The Ink Poem by John Paul Butler

The first leaf is always divine
But each and every one is beyond joy
Though the last is both the saddest
And most satisfying of the tome
Before it's finally placed upon the shelf

Sometimes when I write
It's not even about the words
More the texture of the paper
And the comfort of the pen
But mostly the smell of the ink

When it gloops around the nib
In the rush-push to be free verse
I couldn't care less about smudges
Or the mess over my hands
As words fountain the emptiness

Arriving in a subconscious flow
Almost a waking dream of the soul
Over which I have no control
The lines just keep appearing
As my eyes blur into their patterns

My fingers perpetually swelling with words
That echo up the long throat of my arm
And speak out into the white beyond
A corporeal afterlife of paradisal oblivion
To those feelings buried deep within