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.