the finest India black

[metaphorliteral]

She gets inspiration right from the wellspring,
sipping ink out of her chipped teacup;
teeth stained by similes the pigmentation brings,
metaphors lingering on her tongue when she drinks them up.

She mixes blue and black like fragrant oolong,
and steeps it for hours at a rolling boil.
It’s a heady brew and she likes it strong,
the better to support long hours of toil.

The hot liquid flows between parted lips
and burns her up from stomach to skin,
then channels through to her fingertips
and the words pour out from deep within.

Ink-drinking allows her to bypass the muses
and be productive whenever she chooses.