The Writer

Two to a tale the writer cast,
Fumbling ’round his forgotten past.
“Two and no more” he said aloud,
All too confident, none too proud.

One by one he adorned them so,
Some with sunshine, some with snow.
Two by two their parts were played,
Telling a story that he had made.

The writer wrote, both fair and far
Of jungle cat to distant star.
The cat did roar and star did shine,
Growing louder, brighter–every line.

The writer wrote both day and night
Of simple bliss and awful fright.
Thinking, mulling, crafting more,
Both shaping mount and sanding shore.

Time became a blurring wind,
It’s chilling sting tough to fend.
Numbed stiff by dulled desire,
Stopped cold by state so dire.

Sadly, now he etched his pen,
Making him like common men.
He ate and slept and wrote more still,
Although such things had lost their thrill.

He cast himself into a story,
One ridding him of fame and glory.
It’s setting, well–dull and low,
With dim, old lights without a glow.

Two to a tale he still did cast,
Until he began to write his last.
Such a tale so strangely begun
With he, himself–the only one.





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