No one sees the ink spilled
On ebony tiles of the master bath
Yet black blood trickles in long clean cracks
And trails its way through shards of broken glass
No one sees little hands shift the little painted stool
To rise and stand before the oval portrait
Of a girl whose eyes are not yet full
Of the doomed impermanence fated
To the frail cartridges that store little souls
Only curious emerald vectors and stars
The color of clovers and baby bird hearts
And all the shades of the night moon’s rainbow halo
That carve a path to heaven through the clouds
The eyes that see everything
And nothing at all
And in the center, one single drop
Of the forgotten ink
Its ceaseless flood and fall
Is the watchmaker’s final clock
No one hears the song
Of the swing that sweeps beneath the willow
The breeze on berries’ cheeks
Or the puff of a caterpillar’s mushroom pillow
The yawn of the man who holds an empty feather quill
Or the shattering mirror fragments that now lay quiet and still
Art by Kėkė 