Pencil moves across the page;
graphite on the paper blazes;
letters, join, and come together, now.
Floating on the mind like feathers,
sigils writ with light on aether,
melt upon the warmth of empty space.
Nothing left but empty mind,
forgetting words, and sigil signs,
they’ve sunk beyond where nothing has a face.
Nothing there but unseen dreams
that move about with simple ease,
and bring results as quickly as they please.
Moving like an iron cog
that changes time on ivory clocks
although no one can see the sturdy wheels.
Who will make or mend the train
of whirling dreams that slowly drain?
And, who will wind the mighty, silver spring?
And who will wear the key?
Copyright © Jack Webster | Year Posted 2020
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