Belles-Lettres

yaskhan

A poem rises 
From silent words:
Inkwell blue

Words melt 
Out of the quietness;
Drawing the indigo out
In the lifting of quill
The color of words
Warm
My home becomes a
Belles-lettres morning-
And a limitless sky

Raw, the virgin stain on my fingers
The curve of the cursive
In the fire of your eyes
The whisper of words
In the soul's keeping.

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