The Smile of the Unvanquished

We give children the spark of life, but at long last they lead their own life - and it's no different to art that involves words. In other instances, we try to keep up with a boss who's pacing back and forth - fast and unpredictable - and suffer the more for it as we risk to trip over our own feet and fall or worse: we retrieve the gist, bereft however of essence and sink to our knees in a daunting and angst-ridden state, brewing with frustration and doubt. Maybe this in part explains the sensitivity of the artist to critics and the argumentative reaction that ensues: a legacy shared to the world is shot down, and a piece of your soul dies with it - no one wants to die, after long suffering and a lifetime in hardship, in dishonour, let alone see their children pass away before your own departure from life on this earth. Traditional poetry was very much the product of a craft, hence the coinage 'wordsmith', that involved a set of rules and techniques, to hone skills

the shadows of time disperse, as the gibbous moon spills its crisp silvery blood into the crevices of slumbering gambol-worn  provinces and enriches the veins of  downtrodden souls, thirsty for that spark of energy that sears away the putrescence clinging on their abraded hides of  chastity.