Scribbler
written by: Emma Wells
On formation’s wing
she tosses and writhes
submerged by data checking,
intricate research
as you, my forming novel,
limply morph,
fading in and out
as faulty speakers.
Sometimes, you’re clear
bold as whiskers
pouncing at me
with playful paws
letting me stroke
your vulnerable underbelly
as words form,
unravelling prose
whilst you unfurl,
stretching to your peak
in the spilling syntax sun.
At others, you’re harder to find:
lost to cavernous edges,
too sharp to touch.
A black-death oblivion
looms over the blank page;
The cursor mightily annoyed
at my stumbling hesitancy,
blinking away frustration.
Inaction stoppers
all fluid/thoughts,
seamless/sequences.
The thought of a spine
or hardback cover
are eons away,
shadowed, unreachable
black mountains,
hiding gold filigree.
Like love, you are a thorn
yet, in equal parts,
the nurturing nectar of the rose:
both tangled into one.
You are my last thought;
an itchy rash;
a reawakening cold swim
and a Lamb’s wool rug in winter:
all threaded together.
A dichotomy of extremes
mirroring surging sunshine
and muted moonlight.
In sleep, the Mac cursor taunts,
flashing ineptly
awaiting my awakened fingertips
reminders of industry
punctuate dreams
like literary Morse code,
where you wan, flow,
concave, convex,
my heavenly demon.
You are the start. The end.
The in-between.
The crux. The fall.
As a perpetual scribbler
I’ll follow you anywhere…
With your pages fluttering
on shaggy wasteland,
or lost in building gales,
I’ll be pressed by your side…
taming uncertainties
as a spine binds a book.
- Scribbler - March 23, 2025
- Vermillion - January 21, 2025
- Poveglia - October 31, 2024
