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
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