The Poet.

In his leather brown desk chair, the man sits at his desk in front of his ribboned type writer and stares down at it, his eyes wide and durable. He’d seen many things and had written many things in his day, an old man now, but in his day he was a famous poet. He’d write long and short proses and become enthralled in his mind that his marraige to a lovely lady perished and he’d never marraid again.

His words were scripted and bound in many bookstores and libraries throughout his seventy something years of writing, his eyes were his soul to his inner inspirations, but now as he sat there trying to find the write words to say, this would most probably be his last write, the last one he had in him, after going blind from poor health and a long case of suffering from Diabetes.

These emotions displayed in his eyes were tears of sorror, his sadness much deeper than his writes of the past, and his future didn’t hold much faith.

He wanted to write it out of his soul, out of his heart those words he should’ve said many years ago to the one woman he loved, the only woman he had ever loved, his wife.
Never having tried to lure her back, she had left after many years of waiting for him to realise that his words he’d been writing all along were those of the cherished life they had together. But back then he didn’t think about those memories, he’d never thought or even accpeted half the responsibility of why their marraige fell apart, but things went down hill fast after their second son David was born.

It wasn’t until his depressive state long after the World War II had kicked in, that he began to shut himself away, he drank scotch by the bottles and until about ten years ago, his drowning and dwelling sorrows were deep into the ground of an alcoholics life, or rather, a dwelling of sadness.

He sat, stared and typed. He typed for hours and at small intervals word cry tears of sadness, joy and ending his last and final write, he smiled humbly with a gracious glow of a new dawned smile.

His poetic justice had been done, his last write, but his first open book to his passed love had ended, but with this chapter closing, he sat back in his chair with silence over his face, his eyes glazed with a peering marbling stare, his final chapter may have closed in this life, but it was his first chapter in another heavenly place.

The Poet.

Writers-Block

Joined May 2012

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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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