A Purpose

My pen
Dives into the
Inkpot.
Devouring it's
Black blood
So that it may
Spit it back
Out, unto the
Page.

Furiously,
For hours and
Days and
Months and
Years,
It repeats the motion.
Copying black iron symbols
To produce unique scrawls of it's
Master's insanity.

They make
Dark tales,
Monologues of madness,
And
Poetry painted in shades.
All reflections of the
Mind.

The creation of word
- Thought given form -
Grants the tool and the
Artisan purpose,
Sometimes, even joy
Within this turning world
As it spins ever faster
While crumbling it's
Pointless form
Away.
Draining into the
Void.

The creation
Forces it to
Matter.
Giving all reason to
See the end.

If only for these few moments.