By J Ann Crowder

I will
Of me and I, within my heart write
With feathered flanked pens on parchments growing old and dusty
Thus words grow old and dusty; yet, never truly die
Growing eternally, stamping moonlight in our mind's eye
Mysteries too, ever filled with mystical worlds of the imagination’s wonder
Wind moves, a pen draws silky lines of ink on barren landscapes
With each breath we write our heart
We live and die in our stories
Our lives exist as history books of prose purposefully arranged like a picturesque of roses in a vase
Living on pages, breathing with the fluttering gust of wind against each turning leaf
Tapestries gracefully drawn, books from the past, living as both present and future
Thus they mold us like a potter’s hands molding a lump of clay
The rough barrier of those hands turn to silk beneath the clay
We write once more, now emboldened by madness
Stealing away remnants of the past, reshaping them with our own golden hue
We sense a tapping dance of our fingers strumming strings on a magic guitar
Writing, singing, tapping, strumming on pages
We write with particles of a living, breathing past, carrying them into the present on winds of ink
Spilling into ink puddles, transforming into a masterpiece
We write once more
By and by, day fades
Death comes running to our window
As he does for us all
He beckons with his ghostly serenade
We vigorously write once more until the last drop of spilled ink is spent
Though our bodies smolder to dust we live within each curved stroke of remaining spilled ink
Our hearts spill over and eternally live on leaves turning in wind
Our remnants are stolen
They are as fragments of ink
A potter's hands molding clay
Becoming both present and future
Molded and shaped into one sculpture
Becoming a moon’s stamp on time, forever rising and falling as moons with different colors burning

Written April 6th 2016. Interpret this in your own way. Just some more deep thoughts turned into poetry.

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almost 4 years

And while we will never be like Shelley or Keats or Whitman, I say "Who cares?"

I like your poem

Robert L. Martin
almost 4 years

Reading something good like yours gives me inspiration to do better. I don't copy anything, but it brings me to the threshold of my own mind.

Robert L. Martin
almost 4 years

I interpret it as writing is eternal. as long as the pages are still there, unlike the music that goes away after the song has ended. Did I interpret it right?

J Ann Crowder
J Ann Crowder
almost 4 years

I'd say you interpreted it pretty well. And also the writer of the past shapes the writer of the present and future. New writing styles often are a mixture of what the author has learned from those before with his or her own unique voice.

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