Inkwell

what is this

black liquid

in the barrel that

blots and spills

on the bleached

white sheets of reams

of desecrated trees

an artificial language

shorn from reason

spewn by laser printers

the two-dimensional

depiction of the

metamorphosis of evil

once upon a time

there was hope for

what might be imagined

writings penned from

what was known

of darkness and light

the nib of the

feather quill

shaped and slit

to make the point

the point dipped

in the gall ink mixed

in the stone well

to coax forth words

the flowing calligraphy

and short strokes

of words drying to black

the black bonding

with parchment

to form a story

who could have foreseen

what would be spawned

from these primitive but naive

human undertakings

the wingless

goose long dead

the scribe unnamed

the folio rushing

on past dust

to nothing

the intended meaning

if carried forth at all

recounted in a

corrupt translation

the future in the doughy

hands of an illiterate fool

attempting to rule the world

with oil and lube and the threat

of the incineration of nations