In the ink’s black orchard,
I hear the quill’s slow harvest —
letters ripening in the dark,
their skins thin as moonlit rice paper.
A moth, pale as a forgotten cousin,
rests on the margin,
its wings patterned with the map
of a river that no longer flows.
I write until the page
becomes a window,
and the window a mouth
that exhales the scent
of rain on old cedar.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 2nd, 2025 05:29
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments6
Far too metaphysical (rather than metaphorical) for me, but I like it anyway, Rik...
Ah, the Like is more than appreciated. It’s awesome to have that even if it isn’t the preference 🕊️🙏🏻hanks mate 🤩
Cryptic this one is full of wonderful imagery that paints a picture in smell as well as vision. Nicely done my friend
Thank you Soren. I’m quite moved this one is making its rounds. 🕊️🙏🏻
You are most welcome Cryptic
🤩
My friend, this is haunting. The orchard of ink, the moth on the margin…alive yet fading. And that moment when the page becomes a window, then a mouth exhaling rain...that breathes atmosphere right off the paper. Beautifully crafted, arqios. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks Tittu! Quite an experience 🕊️🙏🏻
A haunting write, arqios.
Thanks Jerry, glad that tinge of haunting element came through 🕊️🙏🏻
May that quill never stop writing Rik.
Andy
Amen! Thanks Andy🕊️🙏🏻
Very deep . A New way of describing the Creative Process. Thank you.
Thanks Kevin. With so many voices out there today it’s hard to be that new way. Much appreciated 🕊️🙏🏻
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