the sound of silence
pulls the pen to paper now,
one lamp, my night-friend,

and the evening comes
like a soft, bewitching song
through my head, away…

strings recreate sound.
i cannot hold it for long
in my wrinkled palm.

it seeps through the cracks,
drips onto the page and bleeds
through several layers.

light, ethereal
i never owned it at all,
night inspiration?

call it lucky ink,
and the sound of silence rings,
one lamp, my night-friend.