Marks

A baby sat with a smile of all angels on his grandfathers lap
The old man held a piece of paper, blank
His hand shook as he slipped a gold and blue fountain pen from his breast pocket
Noticing the green veins slipping down his arms, the lines of the paper blurring under his thick rimmed glasses, he wrote a faint "Defeated" across the top of the page

The baby, nestled against his grandpa's shirt, laughed at the activity, and tugged with tiny hands at the paper
The grandfather came out of his thoughts and looks at the baby, giggling and pulling
He smiled and pulled another instrument, a pencil, from his pocket while flipping over the paper
Placing the pencil tightly within the baby's inexperienced hands, the old man wrapped his own around them
And guided the tip across the top of page, leaving behind flaky streaks that spelled "Innocence"

Across from them sat a young man, with a page of his own
Black circles haunted the spaces beneath his eyes
He held the paper on both sides tight, drumming his fingers in mindless beats
He smelled of heartache, his sight set far on the one he loved but did not love him back
And he imagined her, thought of her face upon the page, the pressure of her eyes upon his, the beating of his heart when she was close, and then he picked up the tiny, worn down stub of a pencil that lay beside him
And, scribbling, he drew the word "Torture" on the head of the page

Some seats down the row sat another man, slightly older, but from a different walk of life
His attire was drab, mostly holes and tears
The beard that he wore was wild, some hairs tucked into the fold of his chin
All his belongings lay covered in a small folded cloth bag to his side, except a piece of paper, which he balanced on his malnourished legs
Rummaging in his bag and producing a bent pen he'd found on the street some days ago, he titled his paper, with contrastingly beautiful handwriting, the words "False Promise"

Last sat a woman, frail despite her tender age
Her pink blouse had pinned to it a flower whose petals had long since departed, each pulled away by every person who'd deserted her
Her blonde locks were trying to hide streaks of gray, and she trembled as she rubbed the edges of the page she held
Reminiscing about happier times, fuller times, she slipped a hand into her purse and took out a bottle of ink and the feather pen she'd been gifted so many years ago
The gifter's initials and hers were carved into the spine, but time had made them unreadable
Dipping it once, twice, thrice, she held it sadly over the head of the page
Involuntarily, tears escaped her eyes and sank deep into the paper, leaving wet, darkened, pools
Biting back more, she traced "Sorrow" upon her page

Seeing all this I, sitting by myself and staring out the window of the train in which we all rode, took my gaze off of the zipping landscape and brought it to my own paper
But nothing would come to mind.
So I put it aside and pocketed my pen, looking back again at the trees, disappearing from view as soon as they came