Whether it floats to marble desks, peered upon
Through gilded reader’s glasses perched
On the tips of wart-riddled, speckled noses,
Or contentedly rests within a desk of pine,
Where it shares space with volumes of others
Much like itself;
All alike in their destiny to exist in silent harmony.
Whether it take the shape of Hercules, bolted
To a pedestal of granite, seared into the eyes
Of passers by,
Or be it a silent dweller of a yellowed spiral notebook,
Bound to be found by the young blood,
Spirited in the adventure of discovery.
A renowned classic; played, rewound, and played again.
Old scribbles from feelings felt in times far behind.
Both conceived from the womb of memory,
Cycled through learned progression,
And emerged as an experienced being.
Both are scribes in history,
Filling the voids between what is known,
And what is complete mystery,
Spawned from emotions sure as the humid summer midnight air driving past your face and jetting down your sleeves from the car window,
And the pink evening skies over a muted snow-shrouded sanctuary; beholding upon you its magnificent embrace as a frozen tear adheres to your rosy cheeks.