The Old Scribe
I remember the reach of
crooked fingers
and then the swing of
the lamp's chain
- at first, a silent metronome
then, in dark moments
he'd sit and stare - last words
echoing within until
an encore of light and
a few more scribbled thoughts
...what inspiration haunted and
fought to be recalled - released.
Dogeared pages stained with tears
- dried in painful pauses,
smeared ink blots
on recollections that came too close,
then slipped inside that
vulnerable glare...
Copyright © Craig Cornish | Year Posted 2020
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