I pour paisley moons into night’s cup and sip. There’s a slow hum to the silence, a regenerative nature in what doesn’t speak. An effigy of my breath, the vapor of words cannot be captured. But ink stains my fingers, and the pallor of my knuckles matches Ursa Minor. Though to grasp anything in my hands is futile.

I collect things on a digital cork-board: snippets, segments, lines, color, fragmented reality. The tangible quality of things have grown wings. And yet, almost nothing flies. The peacock has lost another feather. Time sits in the bottom of the cup.

© Grace Black


31in31The October Poetry Journey continues… #OctPoWriMo

Today is Day 7 of OctPoWriMo  join me, 31 poems in 31 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 31 in 31!

Love and Ink,


  1. This is just haunting, sexy, sad in equal measure.

    Whismy is right, that first line. Sipping the moon conjures comfort and loneliness all at once. *sigh*

  2. Grace! I am amazed! This really blew my socks off. I read it thrice and am still shaking my head in happy astonishment at your creative imagery. There is so much in here, all packed up into every word of every line. Fantastic job..!

  3. My dear … they’ve said it all, what more to say that you left me fascinated by this write … even if the peacock is losing another feather … one never knows when things with wings will fly … Bastet

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