before the ink runs dry



Some words live best
in the weight of paper
and the scent of ink.
 
This piece remembers
the feel of writing
before the world went weightless.
 
I wrote when ink could smudge,
when paper drank each word like rain,
and margins bloomed with afterthoughts
in the tilt of a hurried hand.
 
Now letters glow in silent rows—
no scent of pulp, no weight of page—
only the pause of a waiting pen
and the arc of an unseen cloud.
 
Still I dream of the press’s breath,
of type that bites and leaves its mark,
of holding something warm and real
before the quill falls silent.
 
 
 
 
 


.

 





Poetry by arquious The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 134 times
Written on 2026-04-14 at 02:26

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Sameen The PoetBay support member heart!
Sometimes the quiet is the real poem. But then again, why be quiet when you can write such wonderful poems as this
2026-05-04


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
The aroma of paper, not so much the ink, is burned into my senses. It is another 'then' though, isn't it. Maybe it is the relentless unavoidable progression to telepathy? We write poetry on PB with our rows of silent glowing letters, but they move me deeply sometimes, and I feel I can hear the poet's words. What I can't hear are the scratches of the nib though. :) Blessings, Allen
2026-04-14


Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
May you're quill never fall silent
2026-04-14