Pondering...
I ponder where to start... after all where does silence end and our words begin?
Is it upon an unread page... or shrill, in ear, from a reverberant voice?
Is breath then the locomotive of a word's true actualisation?
Only to be heard when uttered... yet do we not hear with our hearts and minds?
Some poets write to hear the syllables chime and others to spin silken tales
Some scribe so we heed their call, for others it's cathartic... their release of woe
Stark black type, marching mutely in lines of conformity across the page
A river of ink, meandering... breaking into words of cresting waves
Pens painting dreamlands... flooding the parched plains of our ashen imagination
A meticulous mirage... but will it quench, or fail, the readers rampant thirst?
Perhaps, though, it's inbetween the words... in the pauses and noiseless spaces
Where in its diaphanous, cloaked gift of marked stillness... true wisdom unfurls
© Debbie Razey 2019
