My inkpot is empty
My words hang in the air
Yearning to communicate.
I stir my words in the teacup
Their warmth is wafting
Eager to touch you.
I try to carve them on your heart
They melt and mix in your blood
Losing their charm.
How will posterity read them?
I need new inkpots
My journal is wistful and forlorn.
Embedded within its pages
My words wish to soar
Words that whisper and warble…
The song of peace.
© Balroop Singh
Thank you.
For more poetry: click here to hear Magical Whispers
Have you checked my latest release? – Slivers: Chiseled Poetry




