The Rivers Run Blue, Black and Colourless

The blue on this page, a sunken lake of ink
          with only rivers to show for it.
The rivers, gentle cascades of gleaming crystals
          that flow from a steel pen tip.
The pen tip, an extension of the wood
          that the pen's been slotted into.
The wood, a ripened twig whittled by hand
          and flecked by growth.


This growth, the noble appendage
          of a weeping tree's sacrifice.
Said sacrifice, the whim of Nature's decision
          to give either Life or its Follower Her afterthought.
An afterthought that seeps into this page
          and caresses its unseen grooves.
It seeps into the canyons of oil
          leftover by the dance of unsteady fingertips.


The prints, a testament by the solemn author
          or maybe not so solemn,
Who moulds the landscape for this ink 
          to dwell in evermore,
Until a greater force washes it away
          across reality's blurred shorelines.