Poem 4

A flourish of my fingers

And on the white turns black

When did the golden whispers,

Transform from my abstract?


The shapes of words unseen

Forged from elusive vapour,

They twist in undulations

And now appear on paper.


Through this ominous deep,

A blinding streak of fire,

Burning wings of a butterfly

Up, up to earn my lyre.


Set free to flow from lips,

The black water of the stream

Rages. Toils. Returns, then  

Brands letters in my dream.


The spheres of all my thought,

Begins their life so small

Like lines upon the page,

'What meaning attached, after


The End

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