A Writer’s Foundry


What is this exhausted high, spent for all it’s worth, that keeps us leaping from skeleton to scaffold, draping the flesh of words.

Skin to the spirit of effervescent thoughts,
these pieces of us, gathered in garlands,
lucid, treacherous, ornamental wrought,
leaving us dreamy, with every silken strand.

Send them diving to recover questions asked, attached to the ankles of rascals we trust, searching etiolated pages of existential smudge;
down in the murky, truth is forged,
inside ink anvils and blacksmith hammers, tapping on urns of broken shells,
we can live in the ruins, feasting on echoes until the fragile creatures return.

Married to half-lies these dazed, smitten wrecks, they swim in talks of love and regret,
arguing the cosmic chaos, pondering the science of loss, literally invoking gods for the unfortunate
vomiting ink with racing pens and nibs that never run dry, alive and paper-cut sharp uncouth tongues of simpletons
scripting feverishly, the ageless stories of luminous veracity they casually bring to life.

This is where we’re bound, away from idioms that fail to understand, clutched from fathoms beyond our lungs, touching the text of a quixotic page;
cadence will tap a tiny rhythm, to raise the urban grey, drowning the sound of machine gun wage, which warms the feet, chokes the scream;
concepts not present to the senses, the new regime.

And protean seas will part beneath violet panoramic skies, exalting, unseasoned heroes such as these, who mushroom, emerge from under garbled dust;
breaking folds of aurorean wings, they push forth, on trembling voices of elongated crucibles, stacking parchments of words;
they elicit, they sing, they open our eyes, they see.

© SoulReserve
© the-sum-of-many-poets

Note: Why do we as writers, poets, creators of the written word…write? What urges us forward, what pushes us when our own states are dire, what stimulates us…This compulsion to scribble…to record every sensational story that we receive from the outside, to pen every poem and then to rejoice in the splendor of words, fallen in sequence, meaning something…this is our utopia. And all of us are enthralled here. 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *