What were they? Those words written
quiet and sloping on gentle waters
in their back and forth tides,
an homage to the hanging sliver moon that rested high
cradled in the clouds?
The solitary bird flew into the distant sky unaware,
for me, his quest to be an image unforgotten.
I plucked a single feather
and dipped it in the darkest water,
ink of the world of blue.
The words flowed fast
furiously splayed out with drops,
endless supply abound,
I had an inkwell of salted wetness before me
and I wrote more and more as if in a fever of need,
as thoughts filled in like a tsunami,
the prior vacancy filling up
from the cobwebbed corners to the roof,
spaces were filled to overflowing
these words came forth frantically,
and I stopped for only a moment
as my toes sunk deep in the sand
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