wax runs slowly from his candle
as ink flows freely from his pen
daydreams stretched out on his anvil
where each word he hammers into rhythm
with skill he’s tooling an ode of mourning
beside his fire lies a sonnet undone
paintings of prose around him are scattered
and unframed verses his walls adorn
a haiku sweet graces his table
a ballad long covers his floor
his home already filled to overflowing
one wonders if there is room for more
he’s unable to sell them, try as he might
though each skillfully crafted is a work of art
still driven he labors long into the night
his blood turns to ink as he pours out his heart
down at the market where men sell their wares
poems fetch only a penny a line
he’s chosen a craft that a pittance pays
he’ll have to settle for a book of rhymes
his inkwell low he walks down to the store
where he refills his stock of whiskey and wine
exchanging his farthings for bread and butter
and a chance at a glance of a fair lass fine
she, his inspiration, and fuel to his fire
yet she’ll ne'er know, she’s his psalm to be sung
so on marches time and their verse can't be written
for his words flow on page, just not from his tongue
so the wax keeps running from his candle dim
the ink from this wordsmith continues to flow
his daydreams he hammers over his anvil
but prose they might have written we’ll never know
~
post script.
this one didn't start off as a lost-love poem. funny how that developed as i wrote it. it began more just as a reflection of the art of wordsmithing, and how much it is that we hammer, bend, spin and curve all manner of words to make these things we call poetry. language... what a gift we have to convey our love, our anger, our disappointment, our expectation to those around us. a beautiful thing!!!