In the Company of Thought
by Elizabeth Santos
A word unborn awaits to touch the tip of feather quill
A pen that dare not sketch the silhouette of my malaise
With voiceless ink too thin to scroll my sorrow with its fill
Too heavy is my grief to be the burden of a phrase

Nor do I have the sweet finesse, the words of powdered
lace
To sprinkle wings of moth with butterfly's translucent
hues
And flutter sorrow in the breeze with wind against its face
A wing of beauty masking pain in iridescent blues

I'd rather that the tip of eagle wing aloft and free
Glide around in circles through the clouds of my despair
And drizzle inky mist onto the page of apathy
Too burdensome my grief to be suspended in the air

The silent ink is stirring in the bosom of its wells
And reaches to my core to find a phrase not yet conceived
My weary hand too weak to lift a feather as it swells
To lay upon a virgin page the loss that I have grieved

My pen cannot unravel wordless nets in which I'm caught
And so I sit in silence in the company of thought