A Pen without the ink is like a silent field
And ink all alone, do words never yield
Still, what are tools without a writerís hand?
But a blank page, as a beach without its sand.
What is one to compose where no thoughts exist?
Language void of content is a lack that does persist
Imagination makes it mark when its reach is far
Passions, dreams, and ideas swirl the mind to spar
Life is a book of stories a writer needs to scribe
Expressions laced with wit is the authorís bribe
Action and adventure, thought provoking speech
All visions penned silently níer the ears to reach
Inspirationís perspiration as the night wears long
Coming to the end of words, the last notes to the song
Words outlive their authors, making stories last
To the challenge of the scribe who now is in the past
Once the Word came alive and dwelt upon the earth
This Word was a living being from His common birth
He came up from the page and walked for us to see
Though His life was shortly lived His Words live on in me.
Now I see the strength in writing on a page
The things that I know from experience with age
I write of a narrow road as others go their ways
Declaring that there is but One: O Ancient of Days
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