Silver – stanza 3.2

Razor wasn’t an old man, not much more than
Thirty, not so much older than me, but seemed
Unusually old nonetheless, not physically
Although he was short, balding and a bit rotund
Not in any kind of shape, no muscles really
Mentally, psychologically, in his outlook
A bit bent over and yet forever quick, sharp
In his evaluation of situations presented
Fumbling when distracted, exact in focus
He speaks with the imprecision of someone
Who is cautious in every word expressed
He encouraged me to write, gave me this
Notebook, I looked at him as though mad
Yet here I am, Razor told me had been
Trying to encourage everyone to document
Their transitions, to help us through the changes
Without a bout of psychic trauma, I took
Him at his word without asking questions
“I’m writing the history of our people,”
He said as he gestured to a set of books
A work of many lifetimes, impossibly
Crafted by a man of his age or twice
He poured me a drink, lit up a smoke
Explained himself in words adding up
To nothing sensible, but I took direction
Without demanding explanations, moved
Without thinking, I picked up the books
Took them back to my room, sat down
And started by writing this account

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
This entry was posted in books, fiction, literature, novels, personal, poetry, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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