An Inked Soul

A blood of ink seeps Inside a white soul Inside a white doll Inside a white world. Blank to the young-lings Who can barely speak Not because of youth But because of age. Aged star without form, Aged Earth without warmth, Aged country without love, Aged humanity without An Inked Soul, There is nothing to call your own; You are but a fiber on a blank page Within a bad book written for twelfth Graders that for some reason the world Decided was important enough to be forgotten Not only in the minds of all those that exist But all those that will never exist because you lack An Inked Soul. We lack An Inked Soul And thus we are blank, Forgotten Without a home of heart Without a mausoleum in the mind. No! I will not dissappear Not into that abyss Not into the world of the forgotten, Of the rotten flies eating perfectly blank souls. I must escape this future Without a voice to call its own. When the sun rises And the day has been revived, Stabbing through our centers In front of the white page, He will know what I knew. While others were part of a white world Made of societies of white dolls Painting their souls blood-white, The sun will know what I felt and who I was, Because I had An Inked Soul.