Some words live best
in the weight of paper
and the scent of ink.
This piece remembers
the feel of writing
before the world went weightless.
I wrote when ink could smudge,
when paper drank each word like rain,
and margins bloomed with afterthoughts
in the tilt of a hurried hand.
Now letters glow in silent rows—
no scent of pulp, no weight of page—
only the pause of a waiting pen
and the arc of an unseen cloud.
Still I dream of the press’s breath,
of type that bites and leaves its mark,
of holding something warm and real
before the quill falls silent.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 14th, 2026 05:05
- Comment from author about the poem: and of course, live through ink staining my hands and fingers plus the ensuing acts of course, cleaning up and living with the residue that lingers. 🕊️🙏🤩🪶✒️
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: throwback.
Offline)
Comments4
Wow!! what a great metaphor Cryptic that puts all my feelings about technology into perspective. The use of smell, touch, the very soaking up of ink into the dry paper. The biting of the press. All so sensual I loved it. A fave my friend
That's excellent to hear, Soren. Thank you🙏🕊️
It is my pleasure on such an excellent poem such a pleasure to read
Superb work.
Thanks, Thomas 🙏🏻🕊️
arqios… this carries a quiet nostalgia…that contrast between weight and weightless holding everything together. It feels grounded, like remembering something you didn’t realize you missed. Beautifully done, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Good write A. On some sites, there's an option to choose 'white' as a colour for the text. Eh? how we gonna read it? Invisible poems, like that one I wrote with about 3,647 verses and no words in it at all. lol.
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