The pen, the ink, the paper, white, unlined
no footprints on the field of snow, until
some beast leaves its tracks, or some other sign
feathers, drops of blood, old skin. Sometimes it's still
silent, moves no muscle, I'm not sure
am I hunter or hunted? The words obscure.
I had never thought of writing as a trail left of a chase but how profoundly accurate that is of writing, not just handwriting.
ReplyDeleteIt is, especially when you can't read your own writing
ReplyDelete