His head spins like clockwork, ticking away without pause.
\nMany nights, the apprentice discovers him leaning up against his desk,
\nCrinkled eyes closed,
\nWith his sketchbook open in his lap and his old feather quill in hand<\/p>\n
In the day, those skilled hands work tirelessly towards the unfamiliar
\nTo build what wasn’t there before
\nTo create the un-created
\nTo bring ideas to life<\/p>\n
But, ancient and gnarled as they are, his fingers tremble over his creation,
\nSo that the tiniest pin slips from the pliers, and rolls beneath his workbench<\/p>\n
On knees and elbows, the apprentice retrieves the pin
\nAnd steady do the younger hands work
\nUnder the thoughtful and meticulous eye of the Inventor.<\/p>\n
One night the apprentice finds him asleep in his study, and he does not wake up.<\/p>\n
Without the Inventor’s wizened watch, the apprentice wavers
\nThe trifling tasks of daily upkeep become tedious,and the Apprentice grows weary of the work he once adored. The workshop, which was once so welcoming and warm, has become a dreary husk of it’s past.<\/p>\n
With resolution, the apprentice sets off to somewhere else, locking the shop door on the way out, carrying only a journal and the Inventor’s old feathered quill.<\/p>\n
The apprentice walks and walks, and eventually finds someplace new.
\nIn the journal, the apprentice writes about everything unfamiliar.
\nSoon the apprentice begins to record the story of every person in every place,
\nLearning all they have to know and bringing each of their ideas to life.<\/p>\n
When the apprentice returns to the shop, everything means something new. In the journal, the apprentice writes about all of the Inventor’s wonderful creations, every inspiration, every profound thought and every lesson learned from the Inventor’s magnificent mind.<\/p>\n
Once that is written, the apprentice can begin writing a new story.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
His head spins like clockwork, ticking away without pause. Many nights, the apprentice discovers him leaning up against his desk, Crinkled eyes closed, With his sketchbook open in his lap and his old feather quill in hand In the day, those skilled hands work tirelessly…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1488,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[3442],"class_list":["post-62558","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem","tag-2020poetrymarathon"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/62558","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1488"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=62558"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/62558\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":81973,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/62558\/revisions\/81973"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=62558"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=62558"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=62558"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}