The Sound of Ink

  In the pristine sparkle where footprints don’t mar sunlight or ruffle the coverlet of new fallen snow I am a mere brushstroke in wonderland holding space for poets who need to fill their eyes with ink. ©Susie Clevenger 2021 The Sunday Muse #145

Image: Alexas Photos - Pixabay   The dead in me joins October leaves in their decaying crush to crumble toward spring.   With every raking of unnecessary I deny night monsters their insomniac delight in watching me pace hours I can’t reclaim.   Raven wing shadows usher Poe’s ink to coffin daylight’s misery so sleep can write its poems across my weary eyelids. ©Susie Clevenger 2020 Friday Flash 55

With the pity of seagulls this human rock flew a puppet’s journey where mist swallows marsh. In the birdsong of capture I felt gravity’s war with sky. Through palms clutching air the wind read my fortune… Your wings are feathers of ink. If you wish to soar the heavens, don’t build a cage with empty pages. ©Susie Clevenger 2020 Sunday Muse #89