INVISIBLE INK

October 17, 2025 / John Grimmett

I sometimes lower my head
to the level of the page
to watch the pen inch forward,
dragging a small shadow
through mostly white silence.

Outside, the world argues to no end:
The headlines clatter down the street,
pursued by politicians
and preachers,
carrying torches,
foaming at the mouth,
red eyes wide.

My pen finds its place.
I do not care much
for the noise that surrounds it;

All I want is to be inside
the pen
within the safety of
the motion of ink,
to feel the line bend around the corner
like a train returning to itself,
each letter making a word,
each word forming an idea,
each sentence forging a way through the dark —

to stay there
on the narrow track of thought,
letting language tunnel through me
the way heat tunnels glass —

until there is nothing left
but a faint, familiar whistle;

a song I’ve heard before
that reassures me
that because it is me
holding the pen,
something —
somewhere —
someone —

(is it me?)

has begun to heal.

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