The writer's handkerchief

A writer's reliability lies with one's handkerchief

Callused fingers reach for a small rag
One whose edges spread separate and lag
Has seen even the worst of spells
With tears that stain then swell

The handkerchief is jolted and crumbled but often left alone
Stamped in ink, threaded, and sewn
Permanent reliability one can’t clone
A personal staff which guides through cyclones.

The artist pours his heart into the steamy keeper
Sticky with sweat, tears, and feelings deeper
With the grip of addiction feeling its way
Stealing his attention from the lights of day

His hand quivers as the scribbling morphs into beat
Emotions pouring into cloth and tapping feet
A rhyme converts freely to hymn
Voilà, another exposed line

The writer’s handkerchief; what a ragged thing
Whiping away thoughts to keep from dream
A dream which haunts those peculiar minds
Belonging to those with distanced life lines

However one can be certainly clear
The cloth may always be here
To scatter caked dust from tombstones
Such as when knives are run under a hone.

Author's Note

This poem was used as a writer's block dislodger since I've been pretty lame with writing lately. So its written to get my feet wet again!