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Description
My face forgives,
yet my hands itch to speak for me.
My real voice,
not this mezzo-soprano
noise that stumbles from my mouth.

I am Mistress of the Ink.
My skin of paper,
my skeleton of pens and quills,
my blood runs of ink.
Blood of red and black, mix as you like.

Partner of the story,
weaving cobwebbed truth with
lies until they are identical.

Conductress of the fictional,
losing my soul in a world of
metaphor and allegory,
bleeding flowers and a raven-haired boy.

Mistress of the Ink,
weaving strands of the black beauty
Watching as they cross over my body,
A peice of armor unpenetrable by
Sword or word alike.
Watching as they cross over the page,
patching together majestic stories of
uncharted people and places alike,
all the colors of the worlds muted in a
singular strand of black.

People tell me, 'write about your passion,'
but this is my passion, i guess that's my problem.
Ink is mine as
fire is Dustfinger's.
I have talked to it,
caressed it,
loved it,
befriended it,
forever joined in a circle of endless favor.
Working with me,
it crawls up my arm and
whispers in my ear,
telling me stories.
My sole responsiblity is only to
write them down.
Telling my stories through symbols and tales.

For I am Mistress of the Ink.

Description
My face forgives,
yet my hands itch to speak for me.
My real voice,
not this mezzo-soprano
noise that stumbles from my mouth.

I am Mistress of the Ink.
My skin of paper,
my skeleton of pens and quills,
my blood runs of ink.
Blood of red and black, mix as you like.

Partner of the story,
weaving cobwebbed truth with
lies until they are identical.

Conductress of the fictional,
losing my soul in a world of
metaphor and allegory,
bleeding flowers and a raven-haired boy.

Mistress of the Ink,
weaving strands of the black beauty
Watching as they cross over my body,
A peice of armor unpenetrable by
Sword or word alike.
Watching as they cross over the page,
patching together majestic stories of
uncharted people and places alike,
all the colors of the worlds muted in a
singular strand of black.

People tell me, 'write about your passion,'
but this is my passion, i guess that's my problem.
Ink is mine as
fire is Dustfinger's.
I have talked to it,
caressed it,
loved it,
befriended it,
forever joined in a circle of endless favor.
Working with me,
it crawls up my arm and
whispers in my ear,
telling me stories.
My sole responsiblity is only to
write them down.
Telling my stories through symbols and tales.

For I am Mistress of the Ink.