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We've stepped on its warmth— White and words, smudged where we once touched up our pain— on paper; now it fades. A running walk Breaking talks Mixed up in tenses never seen— Streaked through the ink. Left, its only tenderness— My fingerprints. Wrinkles penned from my brow, Just a sheet's ragged creases pulled over my heart's pounds. A clamp on age as the dark storm rains within my mirror; (grasps all the orphan metaphors). Stained wind-blown page, and Tears— their flood broke through; as The chiffon poet from inside is marred and missing.

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Sotto Poet

Date: 8/9/2023 4:58:00 PM

The ivory parchment bears the weight of melancholy musings and crystalline teardrops of the poet. Exquisitely conveyed, Paige.

Valsa George

Date: 8/8/2023 9:18:00 PM

"...Stained wind-blown page, and Tears— their flood broke through; as The chiffon poet from inside is marred and missing"...... the white paper carries many a sad thought and drop of tear of the poet ! Powerfully expressed dear Paige.

Kim Rodrigues

Date: 8/8/2023 7:04:00 PM

We've stepped on its warmth… Left, its only tenderness— My fingerprints…orphan metaphors…chiffon poet - heart’s delicate