White. Empty and untouched. That's what this page looks like,
Till my keystrokes register and a stain begins to spread,
Minute characters appear where just seconds before there was nothing,
Permutations and combinations occur, mathematics of words
A skeleton is dug up, it is given flesh
It's blood vessels are pumped up again,
It is told to jump into a pair of baggy jeans, don a jacket,
And it will do what I want it to,
I can send it to China, I can send it to Rome,
I can captivate you Reader in my yet to be published tome,
I find this funny, for all this manipulation
Takes place in the comfort of my home,
I am not a writer, I am merely a boy,
With a passable vocabulary, doing something that brings him joy
And so I ask of anyone who might stop by to read this,
Tell me how it is that Writers manage to make us cry?
I guess that is why my mother once said to me,
"Son, the Pen is mightier than the Sword"
The Bilge
Master
"Minute characters appear where just seconds before there was nothing,
ReplyDeletePermutations and combinations occur, mathematics of words
A skeleton is dug up, it is given flesh
It's blood vessels are pumped up again,"
Another lovely poem - you could set it to music and sing it out loud
And yes there is so much resonance with what I wrote from the very different stage of life I find myself. Our slates are periodically wiped and we are reborn, sometimes from scratch, at others new patterns from leftover ink.
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