Inksmiths

Expression varies

Wherein which words,

Our words,

Attempt to find frames

To be held dearly

Or mounted on a wall.

Black and white or colored,

Or a wavy screaming man,

Or a grayish blue despondent.

How about a deaf fellow

Singing sweet, sweet nectar?

Perhaps an affluent woman

With golden eyes and nothing more?

On a bed of autumn leaves,

The feathers swirl in the wind,

Away from the text they’re born from,

Towards a bereaved, magnificently incredulous imagination

That recovers whence the immolated idyll is formed.

And a picture begins to speak.

It tells us,

”Etch your mark

In grandiose fashion!”