Chiseled in. Stone..or...Not

Chiselled in Stone…or.. Not…

Scribe me a sonnet says the man,
who immortalises in marble,
not for him, earth’s poorest pebble.
He then holds aloft a feather,
before his audience of poets,
lying prone.
This is the quill of life,
that itches in the hand
of the true scribe.
Will it scribe with honest ink,
letting loose the freedom,
of your pages.

Or wither with an ache,
inside the staid conformist,
so finely draped.
Never breaking ranks as stallion,
wild in unwashed coat.
Giving equal measure,
to painted oil,
and water coloured rages.

He roars with laughter,
as his audience raise their heads,
stand their scrawny figures proud,
and speak.
We can take this quill, not one but all.
With ink, and thoughts gathered,
find freedom in conformity’s scribble,
stallions wild charges, and,
your chiselled cages.
 

His laughter fades to a nervous grin…