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: 3
Offline)
Comments2
Far too metaphysical (rather than metaphorical) for me, but I like it anyway, Rik...
Cryptic this one is full of wonderful imagery that paints a picture in smell as well as vision. Nicely done my friend
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