Poetry's Image - Poem by Christopher Teale
My tears are black ink
That spill upon empty pages
I try to hold them back, till I blink
And they escape their swollen cages
The shape they take is the instinct
of my love
They form words, clear, distinct
Is it sorrow? Is it joy?
Or do they meet in a place of wonder?
They are daring, yet also coy
Warm in summer, cold in winter
And still, however unlikely the melody they sing
Of exotic design and capriciousness
A pattern I keep on seeing
Which rises into my consciousness
Is it my likeness, imprinted
on white, lifeless paper?
Nay, it is your face.
It is your dawn-like smile...
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