My old blue fountain pen allows

The ink across the page to flow

Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,

And words come in a rush.

Enchanting through the hand which writes,

Bewitched with art, beauty alights.

The script is like a music score

Through which you pass as through a door.

Imagination’s home.

As,mysteriously.to you, to me,

The spirits of our hearts are tamed,

By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.

They enter vision quite unplanned,

Like moths to flutter softly round

Fire joined heart and hand.

The pen slows down,the hand goes still

And just as dreams at daybreak will,

They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone.

I almost caught that one


About Katherine

I like art, poetry,history, literature,cooking,doing nothing to music.And conversation
This entry was posted in Thinkings and poems and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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