The Writer

she was old

too old she felt for the task that had been given her

and as she declared to the heavens in frustrated surrender

I can not write these words the way they should be

I give up or it shall be the death of me

words came to her mind

 

say "I give up" as many times as you must

for weary days will come

but never swear it by the sky above

you must keep writing

as long as there are worded thoughts within

for though dreadful

it is possible to die a terribly painful death

from a heart ruptured by the force of the river

that was meant to flow through it

 

she had felt her heart near the burst of death before

there was wisdom in these words

setting her pen once again to the page

she scribbled and scrawled simple symbols

long ago decided upon by someone else

forming words

forming sentences

forming paragraphs

until the truth had been woven

in a flavored palette of subtle layers

only a few of which she could even recognize as her own

the rest was up to someone else...

the river for a time
had been tamed to a babbling brook

a sigh emitted from her lips

where wrinkles creased

betraying the cigarette habit of her youth

she was old

too old for this nonsense

but she had learned long ago

that it wasn’t really up to her

feeling relief from within and without

she rose and headed to the kitchen

to enjoy a light hearted cup of tea…