The inkwell’s Judas, a stain in society, spreading hate and fear
but the quill has been dry for years, muttered the old archivist,
brushing dust and mildew from his sleeves and a stone
growing over his grave
a stone learing a new way to bleed of forgotten sacrements
the archivist’s fingers trembled not from age, but from being
a false witness into his palm like a confession waiting to crack
open with a residue of curdle ink
that had spilled long ago but never dried, the kind that sticks
to the back of your teeth when you try to speak around it
exhailing to slow the tremor in his hands, the archivist reached
for the stone again…”Father forgive me, for I have sinned”
