inkless increment (dedicated to my dying pen...)
pulling through the thin shaft
requires warmth to unbind the tired ink.
it fights for the union of paper
where curves and symbols
are the only freedom
and there must be some reason,
i should need to say this.
challenging the dying instrument
calling forth its will
and faith in predecessors.
the feathers pulled from the body
of a magnificent flight bird
dipped in the darkness of perpetual longing
bound to expression
and the notion of purpose.
(i'm not done).
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1 comment:
This poem lacks metaphor. Perhaps you could conclude by connecting the act of writing to something else (that is itself perhaps alluded to in the poem).
I like that you take the time to describe the minuscule; it is a strength. When thinking of the small, I always consider: how does the small and insignificant connect to/affect the larger whole.
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