Ink Falls On Hot Stone
My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across the page to flow
Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,
And words come in a rush.
Enchanted by the hand that writes,
Bewitched by art, beauty alights.
The script is like a music score
Through which we pass as through a door.
Imagination’s home.
As, mysteriously to you, to me,
The spirits of our hearts are tamed,
By rhythms of pen, of brush, of mind.
They enter vision quite unplanned,
Like moths to flutter softly round
Fire joined heart and hand.
The pen slows down, the hand goes still
And just as dreams at daybreak will,
They shrink, they disappear, they’re gone,
Like water on hot stone
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
