The Beloved
enters like a mist
When in stillness
Lays a kiss
Disarms my words
eludes my eyes
pages empty
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”
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
The Beloved
enters like a mist
When in stillness
Lays a kiss
Disarms my words
eludes my eyes
pages empty
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”
