My fingers dance along the ink-stained paper,
Eyes shining, ideas flooding in a gentle wave.
I lift my pen, giving it new life,
From its days of unwritten visions.

Perhaps an unknown hand had lingered,
Tracing words long lost, long forgotten.
Sharing a wisdom known by few,
But leaving it to be passed on.

Maybe a great man had a thought,
Forming from sparkly, hazy dust
Had thought to write it down, but,
It was too new, still a child.

Potentially a lost soul had wandered in this page
Thinking to write, but choosing not to
Some things cannot be written,
And so they leave, scattering silence.

Solitary, I leave it there
My pen threatening to spill words,
Like a long-buried secret held in its life
I leave it there and walk away.