Inklings

 

 

 

 

  

 

 
I am the ink that has no pen
the word unseen, unheard, unknown;
the walk before the map unfolds,
those corners left unturned…

I am the hope before the vision
the slow desire which augurs fire;
that pregnant breath of unformed words …
those quavers of unwritten song

I am the tongue that waits for speech
the ahhh of exquisite still unfolding,
the oooh of unexpected glory,
the I in why of dying day …

I am the nightmare of hollow sound,
caving the cheeks to keen a howl
that shrieks the groan of knowing now
 


 

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