inkwell

The poet inks overflow pouring out fantasy of strong wine for his harp. Books, divine scroll that sealed his wit into million words. Watch the poet, his ink are confluence of strings filled with a million rhythms. Like wisp for the harp he stagger to his pen and cry ocean into a poem. O what an ink in a pipette running errands like a child to weave my insp...into words. Drop o blessed psalms. inkwell my beloved teacup, for my heart shall jolly when thou inkstand. #poecticrhythmn