bearhat

Spindle I am. Spindle I be. In the cogs of mediocrity. An insignificant sprocket in the belching machinery. I be. My days at the coal face are lost to me.

But at night…

I am transformed. I churn. I burn. I write. I am else.

I am a peace-pipe being smoked by purple dogs in the river of sin.

Nightly this calumet of catastrophic metamorphic wordism tap-taps his type to tell his tales, to scatter his stories out into the ether.

Shoveller of words, shifter of prose and sculptor of sentence and syntax I be.

I jest and I jape, I weep in my cape, and rattle through six cups of tea. Nightly.

night-night.