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The strum of the nib. The drop of the ink. I start

The strum of the nib. The drop of the ink. I started shaping the syllables. Off one blink, I got the meaning of most of it. There's a klink. When the sharp pointy black Touched the coarse white thick. The Past, The Present and the mighty Future. I think. Forever has been ink-ed. If only it could be undone. Like most of the naive efforts try. If only it could be made shut. Like we did to that one innocent cry. But some remains are harder to wipe. As time passes by. This shall never pass. The notes never die. One moment or another, This gonna voice up high. ©unrhymed_rhythm #Poetry #poem #aboutwriting #writer #colours
The strum of the nib. The drop of the ink. I started shaping the syllables. Off one blink, I got the meaning of most of it. There's a klink. When the sharp pointy black Touched the coarse white thick. The Past, The Present and the mighty Future. I think. Forever has been ink-ed. If only it could be undone. Like most of the naive efforts try. If only it could be made shut. Like we did to that one innocent cry. But some remains are harder to wipe. As time passes by. This shall never pass. The notes never die. One moment or another, This gonna voice up high. ©unrhymed_rhythm #Poetry #poem #aboutwriting #writer #colours
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unrhymed_rhythm

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