Poem: these century old words of

6 inklings - saturday

Before I begin the poem for today, I need to say, it’s been a while. It’s been a while since I’ve logged in and blogged. Almost an exact month. And I’ve discovered that, a lot can actually happen in a month, and if you don’t record it down – well, you can forget it, so easily, so scarily easily.

Listening to now: Mantaraybryn – Pristine

and i cradled between these pages
listen to
these century old words of ( )

and doesn’t it resonate?
the meek ( ) the sober
the ( ) simmer between your lungs
this chest that rises and slackens
indolent and languid
the tide when time is ( )
( ) after the fire
( ) a small omicron voice
paddling through the cubbyholes of the stars

if a minute could make a sound like ( ),
a puff like braille
carving a rue towards the origin of that ( ) for the existential writer

what would he write?
or would he just lay his head like i do
between the pages of a book
and listen to the century year old ( )

the century year old word’s of ( )


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