she sits at her writing desk
mahogany chair creaking with age
the wind pulls at parchment,
held down by glass and stone
she dips a quill in midnight ink,
tracing patterns to yellowed paper
letters and words and lines unspoken,
their power lies in the reader's heart
silence is still and silence is all,
as the ink blots at the end of the line
the wind fades away, the crows quiet
and the candlelight fades to darkness
a collection of poems for ec_poetry 's October poetry camp
YOU ARE READING
The Witching Hour
Poetrypoetry about the wicked and the witchy || featured by WP Poetry on Oddities Unknown || #183 in poem (11/3/18)
