Written

The Beloved
enters like a mist
When in stillness
Lays a kiss

Disarms my words
eludes my eyes
No empty pages
the ink run dry

Hours gaze
from a clock with no face
free from the hands
of time and space

Pulsing chamber of light
that of a lantern
of a wayfaring messenger
She says
“I am not writer, I am written”

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