On a Ledge

The ink is running thin,
it's wearing out,
the pages turning,
the pulsing spout.
An unknown,
restless,
insecure;
An unsure,
breathing,
caricature.
The ghostly monster
bearing grip,
assaulted spindle,
clock on tip.
Explosion of colors,
the Blue, Green, and Grey.
No stars could be flying
in these blackest of days.

The pages keep turning,
with ink running out.
It's coming to life,
it's beginning to sprout.
But history told
is unearthed and unchanged,
and this little story
seems to frown on such ways.

But yet,
the ink:
it's running thin,
it's wearing out.
The fish:
they gather,
and swim about.
Their blinded eyes
can't see your light,
and yet they know
that there's no plight;
and yet they still
can't reason flight.
So stop and stare
and look around.
The fish surround you,
They know more than you've found;
The fish around you
know what you hide.
So, the story, logical seer,
it tells you to end it.

Just not here.

2-17-09
7:46 P.M.