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...
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
