In every book, there are
delicate blooms of orchid,
small, fertile eggs, dark
rainy fields.
Where words are not
words but shiny black
moths trapped in
lace, white webs,
soundlessly stirring.
In the mind, words are
many voices like wind
moving through trees
caught like ink drying
on paper.
1 comment:
One that any lover of words /worker in words would relate to, surely.
But then, you don't seem to post poems I didn't like and relate to!
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