The Beloved
enters like a mist
When in stillness
Softens a kiss
Disarms my words
eludes my eyes
No empty pages
the ink run dry
Hours gaze
from a clock with no face
free from the hands
of time and space
Pulsing chamber of light
that of a lantern
of a wayfaring messenger
She says
"I am not writer, I am written"
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
The Beloved
enters like a mist
When in stillness
Softens a kiss
Disarms my words
eludes my eyes
No empty pages
the ink run dry
Hours gaze
from a clock with no face
free from the hands
of time and space
Pulsing chamber of light
that of a lantern
of a wayfaring messenger
She says
"I am not writer, I am written"
