“CONQUEST OF THE WRITER”
Pressed inside the sixty year old biology textbook,
I found dried out, the dead hummingbird.
The nib of her beak was blackened by ink.
Whoever owned this book had been a writer.
And whatever he wrote,
had been written by the dead hummingbird—
I lifted up and held in my palm.
Feathers radiated blue like an electric dragonfly
wandering too close— ZAP!
She was iridescent magic and softer than satin.
Pressing my thumb to her smooth pink throat,
I noticed the purest of words begin to float out—
so onto the page I danced her.
Beyond my powers, she traced outlines of a lily.
It was she who was leading me.
I had offered her my hand and she took it merrily,
ruling my wrist as she wished, taking full control
of everything I wrote.
Her ink was scented by every blossom she suckled on in life.
Her language was sweet and seemed to spell a deep mystery.
She was all I ever wanted for myself, all these years.
But with the crash of rarest thunder showers,
she was stolen away. And I woke in my bed alone;
Just another man who lost his dream,
writing poems as my last ditch effort
to try and recapture her.
But she, like so many others, was just a dream;
Nothing for men to ever torture over— too much.