In Holy Quiet, I sit alone,
my old, mystic friend, my fountain pen
rests asleep upon an empty page, a virgin page.
a few moments of my breathing life,
awaiting its immortality, a thought that drifts just beyond my reach,
in the hidden place where noble words gather in the mist,
trying so to now appear, but anguish so
to come to be, eluding me.
In this lowered light of loneliness,
while workers and other swarthy souls who have earned their keep,
receive their just reward in heavy, dreamy sleep,
a wordsmith toils and toils and toils,
and sometimes cries, but more often, sighs,
midst candle smoke and cricket serenades,
to bring to bear his seasoned soul
upon the creamy white of empty page, a desperate quest for worthiness
for a work that must be done, yet few will know,
or even care, these odes of feathers in the air,
which groan to life in lyric birth,
these bits of stardust now fell to earth,
in scrawls of ink, ne’er to return.
The writer weeps, the pen responds,
the paper, it will remember.
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