He picked up a pen, but it never touched paper,
and in his mind’s-eye his beloved took form.
Then the moon began flying erratically,
all books were washed clean
and from the tip of his pen
a white dove flew into white space.
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 2:59 PM UTC
He picked up a pen, but it never touched paper,
and in his mind’s-eye his beloved took form.
Then the moon began flying erratically,
all books were washed clean
and from the tip of his pen
a white dove flew into white space.
Request permission to use this poem