Thursday, 10 July 2014

The Pen of Emily Bronte

Here I lay, waiting in darkness

In eagerness and anticipation

Of my mistress taking me in her delicate fingers again

To move me from my place of rest

And open the lid on my wooden bedroom

Picking me up as gently as a new born baby

Moving me towards the light of the sun

My tip shining brightly, glistening in the morning rays

All of me quivering in expectation

Of being dipped, deep into the well

Of dark, oozing, indelible liquid

And all of a sudden I am in my finest black dress

Ready to do my mistresses bidding

Ready to be the one thing in the world

That transforms the thoughts in her head

That allows them to cascade and flow

From deep inside a universe of letters

To an outside world anticipating every word

As they soak up the imagination of my mistress

And words become images in their minds eye

Of a harsh, bleak moorland

Of a brutal, uncaring people

Of a passion intensely sexual, mixed with violence

And of a love never fulfilled in life

But maybe so in the afterlife on the wild moors

And in the imagination of the reader

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