Ink

The ink old and decayed
With beige to turn,
From leather to rope
And wood that time has thinned

With word from within
And black all around,
The rips to show the old
That has lived on far

Its case ancient and dark
Is falling way to quick,
To keep the history together
A rope made to bind

The life that slowly dies
Makes humans all understand,
The importance of choices
That are made

Wood so old and thin
Keeps the words so safe,
But as time slowly passes
The ink will always fade.