Writing About A Wordsmith

Once, lightning struck, and the man had fire, 

In all its harsh scintillating glory. 

Indeed a spectacle to behold, to humbly admire. 

And then, after a million years, give or take, 

after the world(and our hearts) had grown exponentially smaller, 

as people loved and lost through the ages,

as smiles metamorphosed into grimaces, 

as promises made turned fake, 

Just as ethereal, unearthly, yet again, lightning came. 

And the world was never the same. 

She never really suffered from the affliction of personhood, so to speak;

she's more of a storm with skin;

She seems to have a cheat sheet to life, 

navigating labyrinths with the ease the rest of us could only seek, 

I know the moon-faced damsel you're picturizing now, 

and might I say, you're wrong? 

for she's no moon

-she'd never be content being a beacon of reflected light, 

honestly, she's more of a star, one that rivaled every other, 

she curates strands of glittering sunlight and braids them into words, 

marching always to the eccentric beats of her own song. 

she weaves slivers of the night's shadows into her technicolor coat, 

fireflies mill around, marveling at her handiwork. 

She's harboured this one little grudge against the world, 

"Us wordsmiths never get to be muses," she complains. 

So, in an age that is as astounding, as abysmally disappointing as ours, 

where nudes are the currency of romance, 

where truth is an anomaly, not the rule, 

here's my ode 

to the one who'd rather read books, 

who'd ingratiatingly inhale the petrichor, 

who'd rather leave a hand-written jasmine-scented note.