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Jan 2020
An unwritten poem
is as a beautiful maiden
laying dead  
on a sheet of paper;
a single drop of ink
falls into her veins,
coaxing the first feeble
pulse of her heart.

One more drop,


three -

it's beat strengthens
and she rises,
prepared for her grand ballet;
each prance and twirl
tracing every word,
every line;
choreographing her beautiful tale,
until the last drop of ink is spent,
and she collapses  
into the period at the end
of the final stanza.
Written by
Nathan A Brock  34/M/Behind you
(34/M/Behind you)   
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