Ink

Dull ink
Spewing from this pen
Like a cloudburst;
And when it dries
It will not evaporate away
These crude marks
These cavish engravings.

They say the written word
is Permanent
is Final
is Valuable.
But where is
the Virtue,
the Everlasting,
the Sincerity
In ink which
No other other eyes
Will see?

Only the heart,
That enchanted well,
That never empty vessel,
In this is momentarily satisfied:
These crude marks
This dull ink.

*So I made up the word cavish for this poem. It simply means 'of or pertaining to caves'