Tony DeLorger © 2016
The lamp like a gilded halo,
touched every raised grain and knot of oak
that held it upon its worn surface,
and the white hot flame within, danced,
while shadows long and deep swayed
to the scratching of quill against parchment.
Eye-glasses sat upon his pitted nose,
his eyes focused so intently, they were like a bottomless pond,
glistening in the light, but unmoving
as he wrote vehemently, purposefully,
so as to glean all thoughts to ink quickly,
before they dissipated.
In the dim light the grey rings that edged his eyes
revealed his age, and his stubbled face all white haired,
meshed in a curled frenzy of growth, unkempt,
as he scratched away, the light dancing his thoughts,
and the words in ink flowing like a tidal river,
For more than an hour he sat hunched,
the quill his only connection to life,
as if soul driven to one quest only,
and as the words slowly subsided, he exhaled,
as if breath held from the very beginning,
as he scanned the work, the fortuity of what he had done.
In the silence of a wood cabin, alone by flame,
a man wrote his heart upon a page,
and as he read, he recognized not his minds desires,
as if these words were delivered from angel post,
and he understood what more there was,
to this act he so desired to undertake.
By night, the words of a writer found flight.
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