Inked Fingertips
I cling to reveries of youth, the tender
Sentiment of plucking words from summers' root,
That in my journal hours when the red skies
Are aglow, the phrases extend long as
Straw. I burn language the way one does in
A flamed trance swerving in pure daze beneath
New moon, a blur of pencilled happenstance
Flapping like a winged feather that on the
River of late afternoons, I would still
Scribble in a hay, where syllables grow
on racy tunes. And I then could not help
Myself but drown my hands in raw and humid
lines, bury my eyes deep in verses’ fanned.
I'm loathe to leave my untamed story as
Twilight fades; letters drip and clouds see
blown paper sailing like inked fingertips.
Your Journey Contest of Michael Falotico
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2013
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