To Write

My fingers tremble as they grip the quill

of ebony and sapphire, depth and dark,

with traces of vermilion instilled.

The inkwell of my memories, so stark

and yet so frail and fuzzy, slowly boils

from years of frenzy never channeled. Now

the vellum seems to scream, and all my toils

will never tell me why I write, or how.

It pierces me until my fingers weep

and makes no promise to repay my pains.

Yet still, the truth, the beauty, dark and deep,

with flames of joy–I know these are my gains.

The ecstasy is slow, the labor long,

but still I write, and sing Creation’s song.

Posted on April 22, 2013, in NaPoWriMo and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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