The wordsmith’s grindstone

Moleskine in palm;
its crude appearance wears timelessly,
and yet but eighteen years have worn creases in mine.

Patternless cover;
the simplicity disguises the complexity within,
for true beauty lies beneath the skin.

L’Plume in hand;
its wordy purpose so full of blotted potential,
like the creative finger I never had.

Emerald-green,
gold-nibbed and poised with majesty.
A ceremonial gesture, chosen with care.

Poet in thought.
Words come and go, abundantly so,
but few seem worthy of the page.

And so the naked canvas;
to be purchased by fools who wish to admire
something more thoughtless than they.

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