It Must Be A Duck - with Grace  

Listening to the fiddle drip its ink  
from the quill's archer string
into the shadow of death
between teeth of the oyster nut
ripping open my shadow
dipping oars in an endless sea
wandering in my philosophy
listening to the fiddle drip its ink  
 
The ink dried upon aged parchment
faded into shades of light blue
words unseen but the message scream
epistles desperate to be heard
from a lover way past eons
confined in a void of deafening silence
a story in disguise secrets to unfold
I sat alone surrounded by dead dreams