Nothing quite like the writers’ church
More or less filled
Creaking of seats.
Anticipation tingling in the chest
Eyes down in respect.
It’s the start.
Glee burning in the veins
Eagerness to hear them speak.
The moaning gospels
Groaning from the stomach
Bent double in prayer and supplication.
Finger snaps of approvals
The wailing - the wailing of poets.
Lowing like cattle.
Mournful.
Rising pitch to screams.
Screams of agony, of love, tearing apart
the cacophony in their heads.
Jan 15, 2020
Jan 15, 2020 at 1:27 AM UTC
Nothing quite like the writers’ church
More or less filled
Creaking of seats.
Anticipation tingling in the chest
Eyes down in respect.
It’s the start.
Glee burning in the veins
Eagerness to hear them speak.
The moaning gospels
Groaning from the stomach
Bent double in prayer and supplication.
Finger snaps of approvals
The wailing - the wailing of poets.
Lowing like cattle.
Mournful.
Rising pitch to screams.
Screams of agony, of love, tearing apart
the cacophony in their heads.
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