Ink
My fountain pen ran out of ink
leaving the page empty
as I ponder what spills
without pen or paper
only to be written
upon the heart
At times a sacredness
in just sitting with poems
that are never meant for the page
to sing in deep resonance
that purges the busy mind
stringing words together
that will never be spoken
Poem 20-162y
#nebraskathoughtsandlife, #highplainspoet, poetry, spiritual, solitude
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