Child of Petty Tricks

Pristine paper and pen, mine,

What are you but an oak felled

Brought low by mindless axemen

And oceans of ink stuffed inside one little

Pipe

Daughters and sons of men

If it is stories you crave and

The tellings of them,

A little fount in your heart,

A half-masted flag of emotion

That dies with the moment

As if it never were,

Then please

Tame the ocean and the mighty oaks

And willows and acorns,

Queens of forests in ages past

Where you neither lived nor walked nor

Dreamed,

And what are your dreams but little

Shadows cast by

Small thoughts

In small courtyards

Of small palaces,

But if in your drugged reveries you just

Once

Open your eyes

Just once sail on the wings of the storms

That roil the oceans of the earth,

Just once

Flash like a fork of mad, deadly

Lightning amidst a cacophony

Of thunderous drums,

Just once

Rest your canines on the jugular

Of life itself and feel,

Feel the pulse

Throbbing powerfully, the first drop of blood warm

Scented on your tongue,

Just once shatter your pens and pots and brushes

And paint your stories in living flesh,

In imploring branches of the living tree

And the blackness of the night sky,

If just once

You roar with a deafening roar

And breathe a new world in,

Child of axes and looting and petty tricks

You will be a Writer

Indeed.

 

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