Slayer of Sound
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
—Ernest Hemingway
An incandescent drip of flavor
falls from the tip of my lip
words gathered and built
as my thoughts delicately fulfilled
the symphonies played throughout my mind
Entranced, my spirit soars
seeking its solace
in an empty space
where the lines of your soul are traced
I am not a writer but a slayer of sounds
echoing each emotion
foraged in the fortitude of light
My fingertips are their caretakers
they caress the pulse of your bosom
encircling each bit of tenderness
rising alongside my words
I put you on display
with every drop of ink
oozing out the fibers of my grain
My craft is a heartbeat
You are my sea
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