Mortal Prose.

We are, all of us

Souls dipped in black ink.

Dragged helplessly along

An ivory backdrop of being.

Rigid arms, jagged ascenders where we struggle so.

Limp and lilting spines where we gave and bent.

Stresses and strokes and serifs

Carving out our stories in midnight black.

Spattered with droplets errant.

The typography of man

Draw by an invisible hand.