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A Most Briny Ink

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Funny how I always seem to drink
Nothing but a most briny ink,
While everything that I finally see
Sinks to the depths all around me.

For life is not “like” a simile—
Well beyond “to be, or not to be,”
It is truly a strong metaphor
As I brace again for something more.

Reading the braille of these scars,
I once again peek through the bars
Of this cage I placed myself in,
Ever wicked and stained with sin.

Or at least… that is what others say,
Reading the lines from their own play,
Afraid to finally depart stage right,
Afraid to say that final “Good night.”

But for me, I prefer my own chalice,
Living a poetic life free of malice—
Let my ink recite every sad word
So that I may be sure it is heard.

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