The Ink Stain

The Ink Stain

Black, an endless cavity,
twisting and churning,
as it dances down the page,
burning the white as it goes.

A liquid like lava,
wild and irate,
drawn by hunger
it destroys all.

Can make you chortle,
or make you bawl,
it cares not,
but rambles on.

Smells of rock
and thick as tar,
it sits,
waiting to be admired.

It lays down order,
and forms masterpieces,
as harmless as candy,
or more potent then a bullet.