Little Quivers

Trembling touches sense messages
hidden beneath cold and quiet textures felt,
songs resounding in lucid tremors
only the fingers of a quill
can truly preserve
of its poignant power
and sanguine stirs
that wait in such quaking essence
below the facades of known.

Muse whispers her dialect ,
which only ink stained hands can hear,
obedient to her voice, ignoring the puzzled stares
when a wisp of fluttering inspiration
kisses with consuming ripples.

World shrouds in its demands,
mind telegram's creation's psalm,
time clock temporarily forgotten
whatever slays the passion for light
dies from the burning to etch
all the silhouetted metaphors
sleeping secretly until a pen
opens their crypt.

One more chapter born
out of the fated melody
clinging to one's expressive talons
for which life only exists
during moments of crafted clarity.
Uncaring the critics
who see it as waste,
because one can't ignore
the little quivers.