A poem for the words never made...

The Palm of a Page

The words revolve in the palm of a page
reticent without a voice to engage.
Until the eyes speak, the letters revolve,
drawn into the palm of a page.

Drawn into the palm of a page
in fantastical tactual rage,
the drawing of dawn, such lustrous a state,
are words when stirred in the palm of a page.

When words are stirred in the palm of a page,
pristine in placement and timing and wage,
from the copulation of ink, formed to order
and shape, just a pawn in the palm of a page.

A dying rare breed, once the palm of a page,
now a bleary of beauty held tight in a cage,
just remnants of spawning drawings of song
are the sounds never writ in the palm of a page.