If you are in fact a blank piece of paper
where are the words? Where is the flower
that snuffs out the bread, where is the
bold metaphor that calls to me
in the dark of the night, wanting to be written,
waiting to be heard? I have
not eaten the bread yet nor have I sniffed
the life out of the flower,
the beginning of a new poem, the beginning of
something that has not yet been written.
1 comment:
I'm not sure, maybe our minds are much more quieter at night, when there are less distractions, allowing actual thoughts to come through? Or maybe it is because writers tend to be curious about things, especially things we cannot see, and the night is filled with things we cannot see...
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