The Wordsmith

She sits in the forest, undisturbed by the shrieks of birds, the hum of the insects, focusing only on the swift, controlled paintbrush in hand, and the cool, soothing voice of inspiration talking low and sweet in her ear, implanting images. She, the Wordsmith, sits in the forest of ivy, tendrils of forgotten memories curling around the bases of tall, strong trees. She sits among the slithering vines of desire, blissfully ignoring the barbed roots of jealousy and strangling reaches and slimy leaves of despair. Her forest is quiet, shafts of sunlight pouring through the thin leaves, dust particles visible with the naked eye, as all becomes vulnerable to her milky touch.
Inspiration quickens his voice, the words tumbling out like a babbling river, loosely held by the control of the tongue but eager to escape his rich lips. The words of Inspiration tumble from his mouth, they scurry and enter her ear, impregnate her brain, and set her paintbrush to work. She works swiftly, opening the eyes and mind of a willing soul, one both hungering and thirsting for the sweet delivery of golden words. She dips her paintbrush, her messenger, into the deep plum and begins to paint adjectives on the soul's sheer surface. The colour is absorbed, a slight tint to where the application had been, and the Wordsmith pauses to see her effect, watching slowly as the pores assimilate the meaning after the colour. She dips her brush again.
Wide, sweeping auras of colour and emotion, sprawling across her entire canvass, the soul expanding to fit her artwork. Colours swirl and clash together, sinking deep into the skin of her canvass, leaving the reason behind her colour to sink in last. She works in a frantic flurry, never once disturbing the leaf litter that surrounds her, never once ruffling the fabrics of her dress. She dons a dress of emotion, of pain and understanding, woven together with the sheer threads of intrigue. She is but a vessel, powerful, but nonetheless only an embodiment for the will of her mind. The paintbrush swims through the soul, illuminating understanding within itself, and quenching the dry hunger and thirst  for the spirited words.
Then all of motion in the forest stops. Her paintbrush drops as a dead weight to the ground, the soul ceases to breathe, and her song is over. The Wordsmith turns, her canvas and artwork vanish into vapor, leaving only an imprint of the lush pleasure. Stamped into her own mind, she has the building blocks for greatness, a knowledge of colour and what cannot be seen beneath. The Wordsmith wields the power of words, harnesses the rush of emotions, invokes the animal within her canvasses. She controls all, frees all, yet is unknowing to her own power.
The Wordsmith, her own soul imparted into every word she writes, knows not of the breathtaking masterpieces she births.
The Wordsmith, is blind.

Reviews

[nostal]

Poetry+ Prose?
Arghhhh, reminiscent style to Paul Harding, loves messing with the line of poetry and prose.

[FemmeSpookyCorpse]

What a fantastic piece! Your descriptions helped the story flow beautifully! I was able to clearly visualize everything...and loved every sentence. You took care to use perfect adjectives, making this piece golden. Wonderful work = ]

Brittany