Poetry's Image Poem by Christopher Teale

My tears are black ink
That spill upon empty pages
I try to hold them back, till I blink
And they escape their swollen cages

The shape they take is the instinct
of my love
They form words, clear, distinct
how soft.

Is it sorrow? Is it joy?
Or do they meet in a place of wonder?
They are daring, yet also coy
Warm in summer, cold in winter

And still, however unlikely the melody they sing
Of exotic design and capriciousness
A pattern I keep on seeing
Which rises into my consciousness

Is it my likeness, imprinted
on white, lifeless paper?
Nay, it is your face.
It is your dawn-like smile...