Life spelled itself in letters, black, tight-lipped:
I’ve bled my passions out in spates of ink.
The margins bloomed like flowers on a crypt.

Once, when my hands were empty, and I dipped
them in Night’s waters, there, I seemed to think,
life spelled itself in letters, black, tight-lipped.

So much was written there, the pages dripped
with more than time could bear or death could drink:
the margins bloomed like flowers on a crypt.

I came too late to mark the manuscript:
a seal bound it, on which in ancient ink
life spelled itself in letters, black, tight-lipped.

In desperate, errant strokes that shook and slipped,
I filled the text’s outside up to the brink.
The margins bloomed like flowers on a crypt.

I waited for the pages to be flipped,
till waiting out of time I seemed to sink.
Life spelled itself in letters, black, tight-lipped:
the margins bloomed like flowers on a crypt.

by Amos J. Hunt

Original bio from the Fall 2013 edition:
Amos J. Hunt delegated his bio to a lazy and unrelialbe peerson who sometimes.dsdf….eh

This poem first ran in the Fall 2013 edition of Grub Street Grackle