The Wordsmith

Inks spills on aged vellum, 

A tidal wave of obsidian eternity, 

Glittering black like the withered 

And worn soul of its dying creator. 

There is a desperation pooling

In their veins, as they frantically

Impart a lifetime of regrets and 

Misery onto the peeling yellow

Parchment, stained with guilt. 

A crystal clock ticks in their mind, 

The hands of time drawing to a 

Soft close, like a door being shut

On a moonless winter’s eve. 

A legacy of words wavers before 

Their milky-white, clouded eyes, 

The key to immortality trapped 

Between the lines of text, quickly 

Fading into nothingness, a cruel

Curse to purport on one who has

Only ever seen beauty through 

The barrel of a fountain pen, who 

Has only felt love between the 

Fluttering pages of a manuscript,

Parting like the delicate membrane 

Of a butterflies gossamer wings, 

A soul built upon the foundation

Of liquid alchemy who transforms

The world into a litany of words, 

That will never encompass the 

Depth of its overwhelming grandeur.  

A wordsmith is granted a thousand

Lifetimes to revel in the intricacy 

Of creation, to peer between the 

Folds of time, crumpled like a 

Discarded dream, lying immobile

At the bottom of sorrow’s well, 

But it will never be enough to 

Satisfy their insatiable mind, 

Forever searching for a perfection 

That never existed and never will. 

As they sink beneath the fluttering

Shroud of death’s veil, they whisper

One final request, cradled in the

Arms of a fading October wind: 

“Do not erase my legacy” 

By Audra Burwell