If not ink, then with blood,
though I bleed ink, red it's color be.
My heart is a pump of crimson ink,
and with this ink, I write my words to thee.
If I were to write in blood,
my skin would soon grow pail.
for I have many words to write, my love,
and not enough blood in my body frail.
If I had not a pen I would use my bone,
if I had not ink I'd write in blood.
As it so happens I have the first but not the other,
so my ink is red and whats done is done.
If life is perches, then so would mine be,
as would be my red words to you.
For no words of thin, black ink,
could ever be written as true.
Blood runs thick, as my life dying,
clotting the page as red words are drying.
I know you'll never read these words,
but that is why I'm writing,
for as I write these red words to you,
alas I'm slowly dying.
Although you'll never read them,
you will know what I now write.
For I'll tell you these words in person,
when you return into my sight.
If Not Ink
