Writing

He pauses, laying his spectacles on the ornate table.  His eyes sting

from working under the low light of a single candle.   His back aches from

sitting in the equally ornate high back chair for too many hours.

Writing

He stands and walks the circumference of his writing table, arms

clutched across his chest.  A stitch in his stomach reminds him he hasn’t eaten,

even a morsel, for the better part of the day.

Writing

He gently rubs the temples of his noble brow, arthritic hands working

the wrinkled flesh, to relieve the tympanic throbbing from the ideas and thoughts

that whirl in his mind like so many dancers at the ball.

Writing

With a deep sigh, he sits back down at the ornate writing table, replaces his spectacles,and takes pen in hand.Dipping the wick into the ink, like driving a needle into his vein, he delivers up his soul on the tattooed pages that lay open before him.

Writing

--Ken Ferguson--

 Artista di Parole