Britle Manuscript

Scrawled on paper - my overcoming woe;
As ink runs short, my tears still flow.
Oh brittle press, and with each day grows old,
My thoughts are empty and my hands are cold.
Yet still I write with a wounded mind
For only I'll know how I feel inside.
Mirrored landscapes will reflect opposite thoughts.
So dark and wrong; it makes my paper rot.
Days are many when I feel fine,
But I know it's coming and I dread the time.
Scrawled on paper, I write again.
Drip drop on paper - I'm opened again.
Creases are rips from years and wrongs.
And all I've done is make distorted songs.
But oh to revel, how deep the Fathers love.
And that's where I'll hope until all is done.