Untitled (on writing)

Those shy wallflowers,
paper and pen,
demure in the shadows
of wordplay,
where language hovers,
collecting dust
in the vast corners
of my mind’s great room,

Page after blank white page begins to glow
as daylight slowly brightens the gloom…

A blur of shadow and light
now dances, now jousts
until sword and song collide
in black and white cacophony
—like early silent film

Timid of rhythm and melody and beat,
cautious of forte and medio and debole,
fearful of the slashed lines and rolling curves
of l’ecriture sans le sang

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