As Written By Black River

My home is but a pauper's-pot,
but I don't seek the kiss of fame.
My journey is a humble one,
lit by a tiny pillar's flame.

The moon is full again tonight;
another story I shall tell.
Here comes my noble architect
who fetches me from writer's-well.

You see, I flow throughout a world
with rules that hardly ever stick.
My legend's length is measured by
the metronome of wooden-tick.

Just like a painter's gentle stroke,
I too must mark the vacant page.
And so, my liquid coal does flow
upon an unsuspecting stage.

My boundaries aren't natural,
no banks of earth to keep me in.
I bend to bordered alphabets
set forth by master's pinion-pen.

And with this structured ebony
I captivate the anxious eyes
of those who'd choose to wade across
my current of artistic lies.

I know too well the witches' brew
of adder's fork and eye of newt.
I know how hard it is to pick
a Peter Piper pepper root.

So many souls have wandered off;
my fountain's pace led them astray.
"This is their choice," my guide would say,
and he I dare not disobey.

Alas, the fire is at its end,
as is my dusky fluid's will.
I leave you with one final word:
acknowledge him who wields the quill.


                                       

                                       ~Black River~

Copyright © Michael Perriatt | Year Posted 2009

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