Ink stained fingers

Clean were her nails,
and empty were her hands;
When all seems lost, forever
in the desert sands

A blank sheet of paper,
the starkest of white,
Sailing through memory,
memories bright

Where once there was feeling
and passions fierce;
Where once there was ability
to conquer fears

Now all that remains is light;
for only in the light we see
the things from which we hide,
the things from which we flee

Her fingers were stained with ink,
her paper littered with words;
her pen moved swiftly,
and surely as the birds

One does not forget
or lose it all;
there’s always the ink
to cushion one’s fall