tugger
Member
WRITER
I think of you in the market, your curved fingers
Beholding the cool round redness of an apple.
Then placing it carefully in the wire basket,
It becomes a line on the page.
I picture you in the garden, perched bird-like
On the low, white stone wall, as the chirpy squeals
Of children playing rise on the summer air,
Then settle down softly on the page.
And I imagine you in twilight, longing
To believe your lover's hot, low lies.
They slope along your willing skin
And come clean only on the page.
Oh, writer, I have been beside you
When every tear-soaked letter
Became a huge and heavy stone
You were forced to lift up struggling onto the page.
Like you, I have sat awake
Within that lonely space between each line.
I've listened to its hollow, vacant taunt
That whistles through the darkness from the haunted page.
And I have watched the words take flight
To scatter in the cold, deep sky,
Leaving you shuddering on some sandstone viaduct
Longing to leap to safe depths well below the page.
But, writer, I have seen the brilliant glow,
The noble thoughts you cannot hide,
The friends that habitat your soul,
The crystal voice that's clear and bright,
The fire in your searching eyes
That burns as bright as searing coal.
And I have read your joy, your rage... your words
That make me yearn to turn the page.
-- tugger
I think of you in the market, your curved fingers
Beholding the cool round redness of an apple.
Then placing it carefully in the wire basket,
It becomes a line on the page.
I picture you in the garden, perched bird-like
On the low, white stone wall, as the chirpy squeals
Of children playing rise on the summer air,
Then settle down softly on the page.
And I imagine you in twilight, longing
To believe your lover's hot, low lies.
They slope along your willing skin
And come clean only on the page.
Oh, writer, I have been beside you
When every tear-soaked letter
Became a huge and heavy stone
You were forced to lift up struggling onto the page.
Like you, I have sat awake
Within that lonely space between each line.
I've listened to its hollow, vacant taunt
That whistles through the darkness from the haunted page.
And I have watched the words take flight
To scatter in the cold, deep sky,
Leaving you shuddering on some sandstone viaduct
Longing to leap to safe depths well below the page.
But, writer, I have seen the brilliant glow,
The noble thoughts you cannot hide,
The friends that habitat your soul,
The crystal voice that's clear and bright,
The fire in your searching eyes
That burns as bright as searing coal.
And I have read your joy, your rage... your words
That make me yearn to turn the page.
-- tugger
