Once
 
Life spelled itself in letters, black, tight-lipped: I've bled my passions out in spates of ink, the margins bloomed like flowers on a crypt. Once, when my hands were empty, and I dipped them in night's waters, there, I seemed to think, life spelled itself in letters, black, tight-lipped. So much was written there, the pages dripped with more than time could bear or death could drink: the margins bloomed like flowers on a crypt. I came too late to mark the manuscript: a seal bound it, on which in ancient ink life spelled itself in letters, black, tight-lipped. In desperate, errant strokes that shook and slipped, I filled the text's outside up to the brink. The margins bloomed like flowers on a crypt. I waited for the pages to be flipped, till waiting out of time I seemed to sink. Life spelled itself in letters, black, tight-lipped: the margins bloomed like flowers on a crypt. ======================================= -Amos J. Hunt "Once" by Amos J. Hunt is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
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