With a steady hand I write;
No plead nor wish can remove the words,
no sorrow nor tears can wash away a single letter.

These humble beginnings from which we write,
and progress forth unwavering,
are well-spun tales of insight that are illuminating.

These middles and bodies of which we write,
have the constant of our internal inertia,
and are left judged and plucked by the shapeless consortia.

These ends of which we must write,
and must eventually come to,
are living intertwined with everything we’ve been through.

This rhetoric and ramble
serves but one purpose in such prose,
to shine light in the beauty of stories we all know.

Through our travails, and triumphs we find new meaning
in both what we create and what we are seeing;
for our lives collide with one another at a constant,
splitting, and shifting our consciousness.