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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Vic
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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