Whether it was mitrailliatrice (mi·tra·glia·trì·ce) or oily weather, the richness in his words, gliding smooth like a feather,
powerful and glad; his wise writings are what soothes a hindered soul.
The descriptive thoughts that flow through the bleeding ink, carried across decades that only continue to sink.
I can almost hear a calming nostalgic voice, when I’m reading a rhythm of eloquent noise,
smoothing of words, soft and poise.
Sometimes telling a story, sometimes exposing a flaw, but never once did I feel bewildered or not in awe.
Like, pounding a pulpit with masculine flame, leaving the wisdom to soak in a sweet old fashion pain.
It moves in me and pulls on my creative cords, that motivate my every longing to write all of the secrets that I hoard;
writing hard and clear about what hurts, as once quoted by the devotion of his wise work.
Firm values, with a soft sore, penetrating the hearts of a fool to his core.
“The mills of the gods grind slowly and the sea desires deep hulls”
Thank you Mr Hemingway, for the enrichment of such smooth words.