Ink flows from its decanter – 

     siphoned by the edge of pressed pine,

          no longer living, 

               yet in its new form, 

                    revived – 


across this pulp of the forest,

     like a gossamer breeze

          whispering softly

               in shades of

                    cerise.


Unassuming in stature,

     but capable of force,

          by the ache of a wound,

               a page's pulse

                    is forged.