Original Detritus

Wandering in a wood of shelves and books,

Over litter, leaves fallen and gone

From branches of minds the winds of time shook,

For one page that remains empty as dawn,

A sheet virgin white upon which to write

A creation of beauty and lines,

Intertwining, binding, beneath moonlight,

Like the thread of fate made of wayward vines,

A vine to grow and bloom, full and mature,

Until its fruit nourish humanity's soul

With words clean and clear as dew on stream-shore,

Each word a mirror of thoughts never told,

But each page dies yellow and old with must

Encrusting beneath used words of ink-rust.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741