Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Way-finder
turned away,
your heart, a paradox,
carves out its own way

our story, evanescent,
began upon the bluffs,
above the bay,
beneath the waves,

When, at last,
even those words which
spilled up ceaselessly
refuse themselves a page,
what else remains but
to cast our fate upwards,
at the close,
reimagined