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.
The 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,