The Art in Authorship 

The scrape of the pointed end of graphite is musicTo a white-knuckled writer who creates art with words. 

The smell of ink-adorned and blotted parchment 

Or parchment untouched by the tip of his quill 

Is to him a perfume finer than the notes compounded in Paris. 
In lieu of floral embellishments, his study is strewn with wads; 

Royal blue and pitch black tributaries make a map on his veteran hand. 
His myopic, bespectacled eyes are like those of the genius jeweler: 

Scrutiny-laden and hypercritical. 

What the lapidary encases in cloth of velvet and a bed of satin, 

He infixes betwixt bindings of vinyl or leather. 
When contentment makes its slow but sure way into his self-scathing mind, 

The man with the callused and dull aching digits knows that he has 

Contributed to humanity a Mona Lisa in words. 
With pen and paper, quill and inkpot, he created art – a magnum opus. 

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Published by

susannacorreya99

Guts of brass, heart of glass.

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