A blood of ink seeps
Inside a white soul
Inside a white doll
Inside a white world.
Blank to the young-lings
Who can barely speak
Not because of youth
But because of age.
Aged star without form,
Aged Earth without warmth,
Aged country without love,
Aged humanity without An Inked Soul,
There is nothing to call your own;
You are but a fiber on a blank page
Within a bad book written for twelfth
Graders that for some reason the world
Decided was important enough to be forgotten
Not only in the minds of all those that exist
But all those that will never exist because you lack
An Inked Soul.
We lack An Inked Soul
And thus we are blank,
Without a home of heart
Without a mausoleum in the mind.
I will not dissappear
Not into that abyss
Not into the world of the forgotten,
Of the rotten flies eating perfectly blank souls.
I must escape this future
Without a voice to call its own.
When the sun rises
And the day has been revived,
Stabbing through our centers
In front of the white page,
He will know what I knew.
While others were part of a white world
Made of societies of white dolls
Painting their souls blood-white,
The sun will know what I felt and who I was,
Because I had An Inked Soul.