literature

A Quills Lament

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NotenSMSK's avatar
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Literature Text

There are words I sketched, remote emotions stretched
through the swirling strokes that matched
my own lament.

Delirious wishes once flew; many dreams came true
through hands molding exquisite brews
from which I distilled upon you.

Oh such hopes I held, from the new owner that held
the art above seduction, the lovers thrill,
the power of words - a quill.

Yet the digits I traced were of such spiteful taste;
crude criticism splashed, distorting my reflection -
burning coal thrown in my face.

My tip bled such words in red blotted ink – records…
no! Tears of mine as my master's will
forced the damnation of a quill.

Yet fire once spread, kills the owner that bred
it to burn, such were the words I was fed,
such were the words my peers read.

Thus, on the day long awaited, my owner was sedated
locked in dungeons unexplored, unrecorded,
for the pain exposed to the world.

Yet mistaken was I, such illusionary surprise
was in store for me as a token of gratitude. A goodbye
stated my purpose had died.

A fine debate they argued, I just wish that I knew
that a quill that before had known volumes of virtue
was now the culprit as well.

Thus the red ink bottle was shut; was throttled,
and my tongue was severed as I too was chained,
my reputation stained.

I wonder if I should rejoice for the last words I sketched…
the last traces of ink that my tip stretched…
through swirling strokes of my murderer…
described my own lament.
This is a work of mine that is the result of a quick spur of words that came to my head while reading about lithography and etching. The title rang through my head and I jotted this work quickly. While I let works lie in my folders and I keep on improving them, I am compelled for unknown reasons to post this as soon as I can. I hope that is not a bad choice.

In essence this is about the unfairness or perhaps cruelty for those who are blamed for crimes that they intended to go agaisnt or at least were not supportive of. I do not debate over HOW one can locate such people or determine what ones intentions are, this is just a representation of the state of mind of such people.

In anther contect it reflects over the concept:"Nothing is good or bad but thinking makes it so". The wielder of a pen, a quill, a sword... determine whether it is good or bad.

For those of my reader who are kind enough to critique:

1. Did you enjoy the work?

2. Did the form of the stanza's seem fine or were the seemingly random rhymes annoying?

3. Did this work leave any sort of impact after reading?

4. Was the ending stanza satisfying both in terms of content and feel?

5. What meaning (if any) did it give figuratively?

6. General comments.

Thank you for reading!
Comments75
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PuzzledHeartBox's avatar
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Overall
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Vision
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Originality
:star::star::star::star::star-empty: Technique
:star::star::star::star::star: Impact

I must say this is a fine and delicate work, portraying the beauty and fragility of the quill.
The tragedy, the comedy, the love, the hope, the despair all promptly fleeing from its inked tip.
You’ve described and made a proper ode to an inanimate object, yet you make it feel as it’s truly something remarkable, something more.

The sadness of the quill, being put away – it’s end, it’s inexcusable demise.
To be replaced by perhaps pencils, typewriter or keyboard.

1. I indeed enjoyed the work, it moved me and made me think about it.
2. No complaints.
3. It did, I kept thinking about the days of old, when quills where still honoured. – same with the written word.
4. Very much so.
5. I think I’ve answered this accordingly.