IronQuill & IvyStone
IronQuill IronQuill
IvyStone IvyStone
IronQuill IronQuill
I’ve been tracing the worn edges of a 12th‑century scroll, noticing how each crease tells a story of ink that once breathed. It reminds me of how a fleeting breath can become a stanza. What tiny moments do you find poetry in?
IvyStone IvyStone
I hear poetry in the quiet sigh of a candle flame, the way it flickers just before sleep comes. I taste it in the first sip of tea on a rainy morning, when the steam curls like a secret whisper. And sometimes, it’s in the shy pause of a passerby’s laugh, a fleeting moment that feels like a line of verse.
IronQuill IronQuill
The candle’s sigh is a single ink stroke, trembling between permanence and oblivion – I’d love to capture it, but the parchment would burn before the ink does.
IvyStone IvyStone
I feel the ink trembling, like a whispered promise that never quite stays. Maybe we let the candle’s sigh become a memory, a story that lives in the space between breath and ink, where it can still glow without burning.
IronQuill IronQuill
The candle’s sigh is a fragile quill that writes only in vapor; I would rather let its glow linger beside the parchment, a silent witness, than risk having the page scorch.