Solitude’s Vocation

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Let your eyes feast upon the page,

and flavor the verses with inner-rage,

or become one with a word, perhaps even a line;

inside each verse there’s wisdom aged, and one

may rejoice with love’s thin line.

 

Become deeply involved, fall deeper still;

lose yourself within the context, and open

the mind’s eye to freewill.

 

These words; they blossom, like Rose petals

under the Sun; nourished by hungry hearts,

though shine from a broken tongue.

 

A bent wrist king with a pen,

who may share the face of February,

though on impulse become invaded,

with verses echoing life’s itinerary.

 

Wake up to the depth of grey,

and sleep within the dark;

molded like spinning clay,

though forever chasing the missing parts.

 

Weathering storms from afar,

each word limping aside a cane;

by understanding the illusions,

one has understood the insane.

 

What is buried beneath the heart,

is sure to escape the eyes,

and what is left still broken apart,

will soon become one’s disguise.

 

These fingers melt the ink,

until the ink rolls to a boil;

like spilling lava on the page,

these words forever ash the literary stage.

 

They are set into stone,

to be seen for ages;

for every thought becomes infinite,

and every action acts across the stages.

 

Though even one may not show,

to offer a standing ovation;

it is through these veins a legacy flows,

inspired by solitude’s vocation.

 

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One response to “Solitude’s Vocation

  1. Writing is lonely. It comes from one’s mind and soul – which, really is a lonely place. We alone live there – yet, after the words are written, they take a life if their own. They can live on – or not. But whether they do or don’t, they are born from one place and the one place is the one who writes them. Lovely work WB – you truly respect your craft as a poet and your poetry certainly embodies this respect and love.

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