POETRY | MOONCHALLENGES | WRITING | HOPE

Cogwheels of Whispering Chroniclers

Pantoum

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How I’m glad I’m one of the cogwheels of whispering ensorcelled chroniclers.
The state I’m in is a high slumber, but a coalescing reality of our times.
I plunder oceans of insights to get insights. I float in constant matrix of fluidity.
Buried deep in my chest, my soft icy tones meet lonely and longing upset echoes.

The state I’m in is a high slumber, but a coalescing reality of our times.
My poignant words flow in opaline-white curvy sequences of salty saltwater.
Buried deep in my chest, my soft icy tones meet lonely and longing upset echoes.
Beads flee my refined poetic threads; break, fall, bounce; to find new paths.

My poignant words flow in opaline-white curvy sequences of salty saltwater.
I don’t have a face or a name or fame; nothing that I can call myself mine.
Beads flee my refined poetic threads; break, fall, bounce; to find new paths.
My bleeding heart then oozes new lifeblood to fill my empty impatient pen.