At dusk, the tale starts, Light recedes from around, I feel ajar. Pour out of me an invisible dream, A verse too old, a melody; I lose all flesh, radiate; Whatever remains, escapes, Along a river stream, I stroll. The moon emerges, Proves again its showmanship Upon the row of boats And the water below; I float, sink and float.
InkBridge is about the writing life, existential moments, reflection, philosophy, and phenomenology. Read musings and meanderings on eclectic topics. It's coffee and pen, wine and rain. Write on.