Poem: Automatic Writing

The hand is steady, but not its own,
It writes what cannot be fully known.
A hidden force, an unseen friend,
It bends the lines, it won’t pretend.

Letters form, in patterns strange,
A language born beyond the cage.
A secret message, still unknown,
In automatic words, we’re shown.

And when it’s done, the ink still gleams,
A mystery left, in waking dreams.
The mind returns, the pen falls still,
Yet something lingers, a whisper, a thrill.

For in those lines, we touched the void,
Where thought and spirit are both employed,
Automatic writing, a path to roam,
A fleeting glimpse of something home.

Thank-you for reading.

Much Love and Light,

Brenda Marie