The Unfinished Thought
A silver breath on glass appears,
The quiet sound of rain and years.
With pen to page and vintage lens,
Where the external world descends.
Two books are stacked, their stories told,
While tea sits steeped and turning cold.
A moment caught, a poem to start,
The silent workshop of the heart.
The shutter waits for light to find,
The whispered pictures of the mind.
No subject set, but this I know :
Within the rain, new ideas grow.
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