The smooth poet

Whether it was mitrailliatrice (mi·tra·glia·trì·ce) or oily weather, the richness in his words, gliding smooth like a feather,

powerful and glad; his wise writings are what soothes a hindered soul.

The descriptive thoughts that flow through the bleeding ink, carried across decades that only continue to sink.

I can almost hear a calming nostalgic voice, when I’m reading a rhythm of eloquent noise,

smoothing of words, soft and poise.

Sometimes telling a story, sometimes exposing a flaw, but never once did I feel bewildered or not in awe.

Like, pounding a pulpit with masculine flame, leaving the wisdom to soak in a sweet old fashion pain.

It moves in me and pulls on my creative cords, that motivate my every longing to write all of the secrets that I hoard;

writing hard and clear about what hurts, as once quoted by the devotion of his wise work.

Firm values, with a soft sore, penetrating the hearts of a fool to his core.

“The mills of the gods grind slowly and the sea desires deep hulls”

Thank you Mr Hemingway, for the enrichment of such smooth words.