Written

When there is stillness, the Beloved enters like a mist.

I am disarmed of my words.

There are no empty pages to be found…and my pen has run dry.

The hours gaze from a clock with no face

and I am delivered from the clutches of time and space.

My eyes reflect light from that of a lantern held by a wayfaring messenger.

She says, "I am not writer, I am written."