Wordsmiths

Cover to cover pulsating with intelligence

It is at your finger tips

What was once a relic, now sits in pixels under glass screens

Imagination, street smarts and dreams

A paper jungle

With leather doors

The absence of materialism, a sweet solitude in the tainted march of society, a manhole for the passion of gods

Deep cut ink in veins of poets

Masterminds from the deepest regions of time

A small dosage of what it’s like to think and breathe

As a writer tips their head onto paper

A gush of liquid rich with the power of knowing

a colourful juice with the most potent taste

Can be so easily dried by the wittering of morbid censorship

All of a mans life can be wrapped up in page after page

Diaries of business men, country folk and the less fortunate

Letter after letter, page after page

Eyes dart between dark idols, misshapen by the beating drum of time

The rich the poor, the mentally ill and the fathers of fascists

All beings have a song

A song that can prosper and dance in the woven grain of paper

Solitude, in a little outlet us people like to call

Books.