Bound to the page,
dead to the world
passing me by,
ignoring my leather
bound chains,
that choke,
like satin sheets,
soft, beautiful,
unbreakable,
unable to prise
open these leaves,
unable to go forth,
not content to sit,
gathering dust,
I wait,
not for fate,
there is no destiny,
I wait,
for someone,
to reach inside
these paper folds,
and release,
into their very soul,
fragile secrets,
forgotten whisperings,
shared between nib and paper,
the secret ink,
the scribe of dreams.
YOU ARE READING
For the writers
PoetryThe words that strain in a writers mind, they come to fruition only when unleashed upon this world. Contained in these pages are poems about them, those words that both keep us captive and free us simultaneously.
