The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
The ink calls to me from these sharpened edges of quiet nights,
suffering such gloomy despair until I rise once more
and cradle it softly, curled within the solace of my hands,
spilling its sustenance upon the page. It weeps from sheer neglect,
no matter how often I hold it near my wildly-pounding heart,
begging release from visions which writhe until nurtured
by sudden release, an utter freedom from keyboard's slavish demands
to compose by striking keys, rather than to sculpt within the calming fire
of the pen's soothing swirls. Nay, I prefer the inky swells,
the cautious calligraphy arising silently from my blood
over the chaotic pecking order of Poe's raven knocking incessantly
at my darkened door.
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