The One Fear

I- have a fear…
A worry, a concern, a piercing shrill in my ear
About the day I attain peace and no longer feel quite so weird…
A hesitation about lack of turmoil, or besetting strife
That will keep my creative energies agitated, and keep me typing at night…
It’s like- I planted an orchard full of apples in order to keep from starving, and then graduated unto full on gardening, and then ended up partaking of meals with three pieces..
Of what use now is the orchard?
I am speaking of my writing.
My prose exploded into a vibrant, jowing force with the moxie of a god-like Jedi out of the need to be in opposition to the afflicting state of bereavement…
… but with peace, and acceptance- wherefore goest mine creativity and artful verse?
Wherefore canst it go but back unto prose, cloaked, and resting in a hearse…?
Metaphors metamorph into metal toes tipping along the line of irrelevancy taking the beating of maturity blow for blow, giving their all until the strikes become fatal…
My words.
My words…
They have spoken to and through me for so long…
And now the dirt from which they have so fearlessly sprung has begun to be paved over with modern constructions and maturated signs of progression…
And they grow faint…
However- there is one saving thought in my mind…
Perhaps all these years were merely training on recognizing and speaking death to life…
And now that I am full grown I must return back to the words and the world that which I was given and trained in….
Life.
**
~The Wordsmith

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