I pick up a thought
from off of the desk.
It's hard and round
but sturdy at best.

With this thought,
I begin to write.
I cannot stop,
not day nor night.

This thought of mine
continues on
From the moments of dusk
to the glimpses of dawn.

Scribbling and scrawling
on sheets aglow,
the thought takes me
from summer seasons to snow.

If I stopped inscribing
with this thought thus in my hand
It would soon traverse onward
and away to another land.

For a talent has been given
to me, this servant low
and if I do not use it,
from me it will expediently go.

Attribute not
to me this thought
For this scribbling and scrawling
is from none other than God.