Off in the corner growing by the light—
under circulated beams of mental energy
mammoth books take on a life
where manuscripts are born of thoughts,
emotions and a bleeding heart.
Hear me—read in between the lines of hope
as we wash away the clouded minds of all those near,
translation—you enter the entry of opinion
as we ask again for the Romans’
thumbs up or down,
rather than the crucifixion of alien reviews.
Wanting a worthy press, bold type,
and ink of midnight cobalt blue—
clustering on titanium white acid free rag,
hoped to be read paper.
We wait—hoping to be at least somehow a finalist,
chosen because our thoughts connected with the juried eye,
and not the upset stomach of rejection.
We know the mammoth books are waiting patiently
to be filled with magic verse or rhythm,
awaiting the final word of hand—thumbs up or down…
then we will rejoice in victory
or bleed profusely in defeat.