NEEDLEWRITER

DIP THE QUILL IN

I killed with ink, many times before. It was to dense, the water in the glass. I always drank it, till it was empty. So I tought to my self. I’m just a poor guy, living on charity and water, so I told my self „I’ll sell even the glass in which I pour my poor water. So I did. I earnt one hundred dollars. What could I say, but it was dry season. We were dying out. But I got the strangest idea, that I could buy something from the money, so I went to the shop and bought my self, instead of food, a ink, quill and table for writing and alike. So I, because I was living in a shed outside of town, in the misty woods, set it working on the only table I had in the shed. So I had to learn how to write, and I took the quill with a firm grip and dipped the quill in ink, put pressure on the paper and there it began. I wrote a poem, my first one, the starting one :

Little soul of thine
Where is the heart of you
I came here to end you
The last day of you
Will you at least cry
Or to admit to try.
So I, myself in the end
don’t need to clean
The shimmer you left
as you were removed
before it started to
be all around the world
Seen and known.

I congratulated myself. Because I heard people were dying from my writing in general.