In my hands
I write my story
And in my mind
I write memories.
In my heart
I write my pain,
But in my face
There is no crease.
Beyond these lands
I stalk the prairie,
And beyond my mind
I stalk the breeze.
Beyond the cart
I chase the rain,
But beyond this chase
There is no ease.
On my eyes
There are words,
And on my thoughts
A light blink.
On my seat
Is hidden a pen,
And on my table
A papered link.
Beneath the sighs
I move forwards,
But beneath the clouds
I cannot think.
Beneath my feet
There is a glen,
But beneath my fingers
Not a bottle of ink.
YOU ARE READING
Just ... A Bottle of Ink
PoetryThe words of the unwritten story Lay scattered across blank pages, Waiting to be picked up and chosen And pen the unwritten ages. But the pen pauses above the void, Hovering undecided in the air, Failing to choose of the swirling words And paint the...
