The lost art of letter writing
Of words we’re born, unleashed by pages’ gates to build the cosmos consciousness creates. Though tricked to feast on gleaming screens, our souls are tied by birth to letters’ glor’ous shoals With Adam’s rib the writer’s quill is made and precious baby’s blood is thenceforth laid as ink to come alive and smear upon a letter, birthing rise to timeless spawn Yet Love’s dear papers burn in time’s dark...