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Unspilt Ink:

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It is not untrue to now say,
how I have made my own way
across every single distant sea,
on this course to unfind me.

A sacred quest here, alone,
as if now meant to atone
for the sins that I committed,
since all the receipts are remitted.

Sitting up here on the roof,
I look down upon the proof
that again makes my case,
while I once more then give chase.

After that ever‑quaint idea
that my life is but a galleria—
all these sad poems shown,
with all this misery I have known.

So, I get up from my comfy chair,
put on an air of devil‑may‑care,
strut right up to the very brink,
prepare to spill my unspilt ink

 
 
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