Ink

The ink on the page was a smudge of black

words tumbling over each other in a whirlpool.

The shackles made it difficult to write

each clang an effort, each move an ordeal.

Every last sinew of insufferable suffering

poured out onto stark, stiff parchment

as if the whole word could read

and understand

and suffer

and live

the lives of the quietly livid.

Unapologetically, these words live on - fearless,

in ways that some only dream of, apologetically.

Prashamsa Manchiraju