The Writer
Ink and parchment, tools of thy trade Educated words for stories well made Hooked nose, thick rimed eyes ablaze Steady hands floating with skin coloured haze. Neither a lover nor neither a fighter Beat no lighter, the heart of a writer Leafs of parchment bound together Recording his thoughts forever, ever. Passages of turmoil, passages of strife Passages of all things felt in life The writer known not by his own name Never to relish in his own fame. No clothes adorned in motley colours No wish to be distinguished from any others The shirt that clad his breast so coarse The texture alone begged remorse. His pen he carried as a sword To fight for his God, his feudal lord. Words set upon the edge of his breath Desperate, so desperate more so than death The need of the parchment’s ink to dry The sun, the grass, the trees, the sky He hopes will influence the pen to cry. Peer into the soul through the eye Find the inspiration hidden inside Write of the secrets that thy hide. Force away all your unyielding blocks Find the key so the door unlocks To the winding labyrinth and the creatures plot Slay the monster for the words so sought The inspiring quest, for lost words To influence history minus the sword.
The Magical Mellophone · Sat Feb 07, 2009 @ 01:45am · 0 Comments |