Fountain pens and bottles of ink.
I heard a bird singing out the window
I heard a bell ringing
There was a band playing
to honor our elders.
Destiny manifests in every moment
the unfolding vision
a sudden everything
it was hard to tell where the sky ended.
Frozen in spacetime
fallen into a silence.
The next thing you know
The path becomes obscured
questions that are difficult to answer.
We know next to nothing.
All language falls into silence.
Is there a place for poetry after
attempting to create a new language
able to contain and express the unspeakable?
Stories and tales,
places and atmospheres,
now nearly illegible, devoured by time.
A lament to all that is lost.
Death sitting, waiting.
looking for a nook,
playing hide-and-seek,
captured my attention.
I could hear the ghosts,
the reverberating murmurings
echoing.
A word plunged
into the mysterious silence of the dead
and the endless church bells.
Why say anything?
collage poetry from snippets of substack posts
After collecting that line I decided to look up fountain pens and bought a couple. Fun.
There’s nothing better than writing thoughts that become poetic when it comes to a messy vintage fountain pen. Thank you for sharing.