Their eyes maybe dull,
but galaxies are swirling
inside their skull
Unknown constellation of words
longing to be told
Coordinated fingertips itching
to kiss the keyboard
Their mind is their own
version of humble abode
Passion makes their pen
bleed into life
Every stroke, every splotches
of ink makes them feel alive
Some call them writers, artists
But I call them art
YOU ARE READING
Constellation
PoetryHere lies the speck of words orbiting in my own galaxy that was once lost but finally found its own constellation.
