The Process
by Michael Keshigian


He felt as if he were born
to the sawdust and nails
of writing, working daily
in hours of solitude
to construct an architecture
which at times
seemed like a pointless task,
devoid of shelter for any dweller,
a paper house
easily toppled in a stray breeze.
On many afternoons,
following scrutiny
from the many inspectors,
he abandoned the work,
meandered outdoors
to view the project from afar,
somewhat defeated yet relieved
once he soaked his head
in the light of the sun
which cleansed the metaphors
from his brain,
allowing a bit of respite
while the half house collapsed
amid the sigh of another examiner.
He could hear the creaks of settling rubble.
Fallen walls, once separated
by nouns and verbs,
were now splintered by light
in puffs of dust,
carried off with a gust,
floating until an optional blueprint
penciled in his head,
a new rhythm of nails
that bonded another design
with an alternate configuration
for approval.






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