Since the dawn of time, poetic language has blossomed forth.
The art of conversation progressed from being a simple communication tool, to a literary art form
As modern day approached, words became playful, more colorful and somewhat vernacular.
One should be left to develop and create language, similar to any art form. Critique should be left only, to the message conveyed; the journey encountered with one’s muse.
A writer once quipped, “ For it is said, we are all poets "
... then, poets pullulated like springtime buds !
Unique poetry gifts !
The room was clad with musty, wooden bead board panels. Within its belly, a permeable scent of those passed through, before.
Aligned like regimental soldiers- these linguistic souls took their seats, impatiently calling out for inspiration at their deeply gouged, pine-board desks.
At first we endured, then endeavored to decipher the deep undertones of the archaic structured verse. To some, the study was tedious; without utter silence and solitude, it was difficult to beckon one’s muse.
The sun peeked through portals bedecked with muslin cloth, but the air was dank and refused to filter the rays; our only glimpse of daylight
The walls had probably absorbed a million poetic verses and would only exude a pint of literary wisdom to the enlightened ones; those of us willing to transcend the ego and bathe in the lavish milk of poetic language
Once my connection was made, I sat there proud, transcribing every thought with the very blood that ran through my veins- never to fade, as I had found my calling.