The writer was ambitious enough to make room for his mistakes.
Mistakes that haunt every waking moment.
The moment spectators drink the ink that the writer bled, they hold the words in different magnitudes.
Magnitudes of morality whisper to the mortal one of lives.
Lives that never breathed yet built bone by bone with little tunes of letters, the mortal writes to the void.
Void of answers, the mortal writes to reach a soul.
The soul of their ink gleamed through the cracks of solitude.
In solitude, the souls spoke to each other.
Of the otherness of existence.

© Swaathy
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