Writer's Lament
We soar to seek the bright sunshine
Fore’re above our grasp.
With pen and ink we scribe our bones
The pain to make us gasp.
Words unspeakable to those who
Know not the frenzied pall
Of staring into black of night
And writing down it all.
A thousand roman candles burn –
Our flesh cannot contain.
A string of starshine lights our way
To each tender quatrain.
In the end we are all consumed –
Our flesh cannot survive,
And the writer’s only regret
Is but one life to give.
We shall have burned upon the page
Such words that will outlast,
And read aloud one thousand years
After we’ve turned to ash.
Fore’re above our grasp.
With pen and ink we scribe our bones
The pain to make us gasp.
Words unspeakable to those who
Know not the frenzied pall
Of staring into black of night
And writing down it all.
A thousand roman candles burn –
Our flesh cannot contain.
A string of starshine lights our way
To each tender quatrain.
In the end we are all consumed –
Our flesh cannot survive,
And the writer’s only regret
Is but one life to give.
We shall have burned upon the page
Such words that will outlast,
And read aloud one thousand years
After we’ve turned to ash.
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