It begins—not with a word—
but a winnowing of silence.
An inkling.
This hush before quill bleeds
onto the parchment.
The ink drop dangles,
glistens in my candlelight.
A golden glimmer on a black drop.
That is all it takes.
As doubt ripples, certainty dissolves,
while the poetry spills.
I do not write.
I bleed in small, deliberate drips,
each one a letting—
not of blood,
but all that swims beneath:
myth, memory, verity,
this existential ache.
My pen is a needle—
threads dead poetry
through flesh,
through time.
I bow over the verse,
a poetic priestess of old
above its whispered confession,
no hope of absolution—
only a most temporary balm.
My hands stain—
not from sin,
but authenticity.
This is my rite:
to unveil,
to unfold,
to unearth.
Let ink spill where my voice
would choke on the flood.
Superb! Self reflection?
Sometimes… thanks for the read and support…
I think this is perfect for the title poem!
It feels self-reflective, but it also feels like a dedication, like you wrote it for all of us. I’m not sure if that was your intention, but I love it. As a poet, it feels very intimate and personal. You just described me, all of us.
The crafting of your tell was a beautifully wrought word smithing. 🌼
Brilliantly penned, LDF. An amazing write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian