The sun has yet rose.
Yes, the writer is grateful.
He brews his coffee,
Readies a quill in black ink,
And the coffee’s done.
...
But then sounds of tears.
He rushes upstairs to see.
The child is shaken.
“Daddy, I saw a monster.”
“No such thing,” he says.
...
The child sleeps again,
And the man returns downstairs,
Ready to create.
He takes a moment to think,
Short story or poem?
...
A call from afar,
Ripping the man from his thoughts.
“Morning,” his wife says,
“What should we go do today?”
“I don’t know yet, love.”
...
The coffee is cold.
He puts the quill back in ink,
And brews more coffee.
His disappointment festers.
The sun has risen.
About the Creator
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The Wise One
Harold trudged up the steep hill—confident, yet mindful in his steps. The dew of dawn had yet been scorched, with oily moisture clinging to all it can. He learned his lesson the first time slipping. Quite a tumble that was indeed, and moreso fortunate not to have broken a bone. Atop the hill was a welcome opening into the Fabled Wood—an expansive forest on the outskirts of his village. How or why this seemingly manmade opening came to be was beyond him, but Harold was grateful for it, as it made his daily trek all the more straightforward.
By Jonathan Sud5 years ago in Futurism
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