This fragile wick, this anchor bright, holds steady against the storm of night. It burns the minutes of the present, yet will not touch the scroll it found. A bridge of wax and shadowed gleam, fulfilling an eternal dream— For here, the words are not consumed, they simply make the turning sound Of memory that will not yield, by fate or fire unrevealed.
Stories : Poems : Songs
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The clipper and the anchor
The velvet drape of silence falls, a heavy, dust-stained shroud, And only one small, golden nerve insists on pushing through the cloud. It is the flame, unsteady soul, that leans upon the pane, Casting long, spectral digits, tracing names the years disdain. I see the wear upon the oak, the patient settling of the floor, But the restless light refuses to obey the laws of ‘before.’ It searches shelves and vacant air, seeking script that time has blurred, A quiet, desperate vigil for the power of the written word. This fragile wick, this anchor bright, holds steady against the storm of night. It burns the minutes of the present, yet will not touch the scroll it found. A bridge of wax and shadowed gleam, fulfilling an eternal dream— For here, the words are not consumed, they simply make the turning sound Of memory that will not yield, by fate or fire unrevealed. The light is scarred, but the lettering endures. One bending ray finds the leather spine, a volume left unread for decades, And in the margin, ink still shines, where your hand made whispered cascades. A hurried note, a small correction, a thought you couldn’t keep inside, A fragile map of your conviction, where wisdom and the light abide. I touch the paper, cold and fine, and feel the current rush and flow, The distance collapses in a line, spanning all the seeds you chose to sow. I hear your laughter in the whisper of the draft that feeds the heat, A brief, transcendent shimmer that makes this old room temporarily complete.