The Word Engineer

Not many know of that Victorian mansion  
Those flakey brick walls  
forming an eternal autumn  
against the norm of the seasons  
Unkempt grasses growing  
along the old broken fence posts ,  
Somehow still standing  
amidst the lingering tug  
of persistent weed and grape vine  
And , the Hardwood shutters  
blocking curious eye from glancing  
at the eccentric old man hidden within
 
Not many know the fruit of his labor  
Merely rumoring of the man's  
lonely vocation  
As Coffee shop ghost stories  
fall just short of the truth  
Though , it's grown apparent to some  
that he's a writer of sorts ;  
as the only visitor to his home  
has been that of a publishing firm  
Making weekly stops at his front steps ,  
carrying out boxes upon boxes of  
whatever it was  
 
Not many know of the oddities he's been hoarding  
Most have no idea  
of the droning machinery  
that restlessly churn out his  
prose and poetry  
Odd brassy instruments  
turning and cranking typewriter wheels  
Steam powered idea machines  
sloppily constructing thoughtless sentences  
And , the miniature guillotines  
constantly chopping away as the resident  
editors in house  
 
Not many know the deception  
of the aged man's  
genius workshop  
Or how he even came  
to build all those  
fantastic machinations  
Though , If the critics  
could only see  
his hackneyed operation in production
They would surely  
See the creativity behind  
His lacking originality  
 
6/30