.......
When I dip quill into my wandering thoughts,
it rises as the trumpet of the silent.
The clean sheet becomes a quiet wetland,
drinking in every ache of my soul,
proving itself an obedient, empathetic listener.
My mind sends warnings of a gathering typhoon,
and my swift-paced heart prepares
to swell my feelings into a high, tumultuous tide.
The threads of my thoughts — like roaming clouds —
begin to gather their own secret moisture.
Then each of my words, falling drop by drop,
replenishes the reservoir of my hollow spirit
as the seasons turns…
By Mannjaisy
M