The Process

I wondered what it might have been like for the poets of old to craft their art

The pen will scribe the sonnet,
That will make the readers think.
And the page reflects the evidence
Of the authors crafty ink.
The desk is where they congregate,
A fortress made of wood.
And a lamp will shed some light on things
So all is understood.
And in a moment next to magic,
A poet takes his pen,
One deep breath, a focused mind,
He dips his quill and then,
He writes a word, then pens a phrase
As he scribbles out his art.
And the pen, the page, the desk, and lamp
Will all perform their part.
And their maestro nods with pleasure,
As he sees they do their best,
To help him pen this masterpiece
Exploding from his chest.
And as the final word is written
And the ink begins to dry,
The poet takes one final look
To critique with careful eye.
And, though the words are written
His work is incomplete,
But the final touch the author needs,
Will not be found upon his sheet.
For the poet needs his audience,
An echo board it seems.
He asks for us to read his heart
And to ponder on his dreams