~*~*~
The ink bled through the pores of parchment,
And the words written came from the depth of the soul,
Hoping the warmth radiates through the thin paper
With black words scratched with a feather quill.
Late into the night, the words did flow
From ink pot to glistening lines by candlelight,
Until the hands grew weary, and the thoughts numb,
Though the heart was still filled to the brim with words.
Slowly the candle wax melted, as hands kept writing
Till warnings of solitary smoke filled the room,
The signature was signed with reluctance,
And the letter folded delicately, the envelope sealed.
Maybe the words did not sound quite as the heart felt,
But the soul still shone through the ink,
And the warmth of the hand that wrote the words,
Could still be felt as its fragrance filled the room.
~*~*~
Inside the Mind of a Lunatic 