Unused swords rust
like your feather quill,
dipped in dry ink,
that scars the paper;
leaving marks that do not last,
merely dent the page,
when words were meant
to cut through.
You ask for the world,
but you don’t have to.
Your words belong on the altar –
you kneel, exhausted,
in the empty room; wrinkled
pages on the scratched
wooden table...
Pressure weighs you down
like the sky upon the titan.
You ask the silence inside
what you were meant to do…
… but the silence answered
long ago, between the lines
that you wrote down.
Aldas is a writer from Dublin, Ireland. He holds and MA in Creative Writing and dreams of a career as a full-time writer. His work has been published in Cabinet of Heed, Terrene, Idle Ink and elsewhere.