Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The Writer is in the Room

His pen is poised.
Collected and yet promised
Ink has replenished
the mind.
Part Four has words
on the brink of being imagined
The source allows only a trickle
A stream on the brink of Spring,
It's levels soon to renew
to the heights of the best of days
with choirs of rocks and roots
H2O for a bow
never shredding hairs
smoothing corners and sorrows
sounding the songs of their souls.
And if the heights should hide
and trickles be the treatment
this writer will write
all the softer,
ink for inches will go miles.
The quiet song will be sung
none the softer
with twice the range.

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