We name them, a siren call to arms, where we mine and render
those daunting descriptions of our lives, and reexamine them
like mica and fool's gold, leaving us starstruck and bereft.
A problem arises, traipses its tainted talents across the sky,
and we quiver, all washed down to bone and marrow,
truculent, all tangled up in this caustic tempest we call art.
As writers we fail as best we can, we fail magnificently.
There is no unexamined nuance unworthy of tomorrow.
2/8/23 Write On! Terri Glass
No comments:
Post a Comment