It’s pitch dark; a journey over the slender crescent,
Books stand in line as if ready for war,
Words daunt the whites of the walls,
The floors are sea beds to a river of ink,
Feathers from quills embark on journeys across the vicinity,
To and fro from an escritoire that is an oak tree,
Music plays from an ancient piano that is a humming bird,
The atmosphere is vivacious but subtle,
As if a rainbow were to erupt from a volcano,
Ghosts of stories swig from goblets…
Filled with crushed berries of fiction and reality,
Served from a platter of metaphors.
The rooster from the old man’s clock sleeps,
The three brothers stare in disgust,
Hour, minute and second encased in a shrine,
The sun and Moon stand guard,
Time is not of the essence,
For these Ode’s are the sheriff,
And age is an outlaw.
Thoughts swim in this sea of ink,
And as the sea washes up on the sand that is vellum,
Words form. Fine in print.
Valour emanates from every scribble of the letters,
So much so that the gods rage with jealousy,
That in the tapestry, Pluto skims with great interest,
And is found missing from the constellations;
The imprint of adroit literature.
– Smyekh David-West.