On nights like these I like to sit at my chair
And ponder inquisitive, little things
With a blank paper sitting, waiting
In my typewriters grasp
The keys lock up sometimes,
As polished as they look
The paint chips off in corners
Papers constantly get jammed
But with a strong knock to its side
The issue is briefly resolved
It sits in front of French panelled windows
Where sunlight beats the black
In view of all that pass her by
If you linger over it
You can catch my father's voice
Smell his old rustic cologne
Hear the click, click of his fingers on aged keys
Each letter holds a story
Which I endeavor to unlock
Who knows how many bobs and dips of life
These keys have known through time
Dare I say it is not some precious heirloom
But the alternate realities we have ventured
We've run through forests and mountains
Fighting ghouls and elven warriors alike
We've smelled the fresh tang of pine trees
Tasted the fresh honeycombs at the dawn of spring
We have known pain, happiness, and love
It all melts into the timeless ink
Becoming real when the letters hit the page