Is it the thing
to be noting down
these filigree memos
as the rain falls
on the page
and the ink runs
gutterwards
and uncolours?
The words
all there
will not be read.
There are times (most often in the deep of night) when the leaky microscripts seem to bleed into the darkness...
ReplyDeleteThe things that stick to the page and won't be gone have the word ghosts in their dark round about them.
ReplyDeleteWhile I was coming home from work yesterday, I remembered this poem; one of your lovely things, TC:
ReplyDeleteRETREAT
A heartfulness of mind
A mindfulness of heart
Where?
Some sense of time passing
Love in the dark
Some sense of life passing
Time in the dark
Can't see to write words
In notebook
By flashlight
ReplyDeleteSerendipitous timing WB, I come to this from posting this.
"The area of oneself is like a drop of ink absorbed by blotting paper, gradually spreading, blurring at the edges, receiving upon it other blots in different shapes and colours until finally the original is dim, indistinguishable, while the saturated sheet of humanity upon which it lies is cast as worthless into the wastebasket, and another sheet, a clean sheet provided by the advertisers, is placed upon the desk."