The Writer

Ink-stained fingersThe Writer
Smudge cream-coloured pages
As a flurry of words pour from her pen.

A pen filled not with mere ink
But with the ocean of her imagination.

Her thoughts fly ahead of her pen
In leaps and bounds
Too vast to contain
Swirling with imagery
And all the thoughts and sounds of the universe.

Then, they stop.


Dancing just out of reach
Refusing to be coaxed from their hiding places
In the burrows of her subconscious.

Timid, they come once again
An ebb and flow of creativity
Limited only by her mind and hand.

She creates a world
Birthing it up from the rubble of shattered dreams
Inspired by misty mornings
Crackling fires
And the laughter of children.

Writing of the longings, loves,
Fantasies, and fears of her heart.

Her soul bleeding into the page
Midnight ink on soft ivory.

Pen thrumming with the rhythm of life.



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