Wednesday, March 25, 2015


In the box
beneath my bed
a forbidden story,
with unfinished ends,
etched out in Chelpark
blank white pages.
No secrets.
Only incomplete mutterings.
Scrumptious possibilities
hovering over the
pool of blue-black ink.
The fluted-nib of
moonlight's quill
standing still.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.