The Poet

Hushed rooms

and their singing voids

frisk a sleeping mind,

but one cannot sleep with the world,

no, not if you want to live,

no, not if you want to breathe.

And so I molt

in skins of parchment that open

their tired eyes

from the desolation of dusk.

A candle hums in my ear,

humming, humming,

and the quill shivers

on the paper’s ageless body

and finally I begin

to think.

 

My shadowing identity

leaks over the parchment,

staining her skin, her succulent skin,

with inky blood.

 

My quill is the syringe

and I watch her squirm

under the poison of my words, their festering cursive,

that climb up her veins

like a disease-

my thickening, inky soul.

 

My shadow

is sparked to life

by dancing candlelight

and smothers

her gasps for golden air past

praying to some god

for an escape from my breath;

she is my breath.

The void is singing, is resounding,

and my guilty whispers are hushed among other silences

by these trembling, trembling

hands.

 

She will find no ceasefire

in this war

of blood and ink.

I watch her crumple

at the quill’s final stab,

my shadow

finally silencing the sun.

 

The candle flickers

across the page and

outside, the dawning birds tune their voices

to the blush of morning.

She is my sanity.


Author Notes

Altered points of view are my favorite!

2 Comments for “The Poet”

Craig Lincoln

says:

This metaphorical piece is a gem. I never thought to compare a writers need to write as an addicts need for their drug. The imagery of the Quill a syringe and Ink as a poison (heroin) is so well done. I love this piece.

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