Listen to poem:
Ink Incense Rising
Written: September 8, 2026, for a contest Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
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I sip the syllables—salt, sweet, sharp—
tongue tasting the tremor of thought.
Ink breathes like incense,
smoke of meaning rising,
curling in the ear’s cathedral.
Eyes catch flicker—
letters leap, luminous,
a lantern’s lash across the dark.
The page becomes pulse,
a drumbeat of desire,
narrative arc arcing like lightning.
Fiction’s force is fierce—
it grips, it twists, it binds—
a locust-swarm of images
buzzing behind the brain.
Multimedia murmurs,
screens scream,
colors collide,
sound swells,
and the mind is malleable clay.
Yet vulnerability hums—
we bend, we break,
we follow the flame.
Charm of the speaker,
timber of tone,
gesture, glance,
the body’s music—
all sculpt belief.
Still, creativity carves resistance:
word as weapon,
verse as veil,
voice as vessel.
The poem presses palm to palm,
warmth in the hand,
whisper in the ear,
rose-red scent of memory,
taste of rain on lips.
And in that moment—
reader and writer entwined—
the world is remade
by rhythm, rhyme,
and the raw ache of being heard.
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