The Scent of Ink – A Poem

I walk insideold-water-well-black-and-white-ms-judi

myself until I

reach its resting

place. It looks

as it always

has, timeless but

aged nonetheless. I

run my hand

along its stone

rim, feeling its

warmth. I hear

the voices whispering.

I look down

into the darkness

of the well.

It smells of

water and salt

and something more.

There is a

scent of potential

in the air,

something waiting to

be described, to

be detailed on

the page. I

never know where

my mind will

go or where

it will pull

the stories from,

but they all

come from here.

They all come

from the well

inside of me.

Sometimes, the water

level is quite

high, the stories

and voices pouring

forth so quick

that all I

have to do

is hold the

page so that

it can catch

the droplets. Other

times, the water

level is lower

and I have

to use the

wooden bucket that

is secured by

a thick rope

to gather the

water within it.

This is one

of those times.

I start to

lower the bucket

gently downward, trying

to place the

scent. It’s not

brick or mortar,

nor grass or

soot. It is

something thicker, with

more substance. It

reminds me of

what wishes would

smell like, if they

had a scent.

The bucket hits

the water and

I feel the

rope pulling taunt.

As I begin

to pull the

bucket up, the

scent grows stronger

until it is

all I can

smell. Something clicks

within me and

I know the

scent. It is

indeed the perfume

of wishes. It

is the scent

of ink, waiting

to be shaped

upon paper into

words, into story,

into being. As

I pull the

bucket even higher,

I can hear

the voices of

characters I have

yet to write

speaking softly to me.

“Keep going, you’re almost there. Almost there.”

I give one

final pull on

the rope and

bucket is on

the edge. It

teeters for just

a moment, almost

righting itself, but

then it topples,

spilling all over

the ground. Where

it hits, waters

and plants begin

to grow, and

the land is

no longer barren

I feel the

water, the ink,

surging within, waiting

for me to

shape the ink

into places, into

people, into being.

I open my

eyes and sit

back, inhaling deeply,

the scent of

ink strong within



About Jamieson Wolf

Jamieson an award winning, Number One Best Selling Author. He writes in many different genre's. Learn more at
This entry was posted in Poems, Talking Poems, Talking to the Flame and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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