In this quiet, chilly room
Sit friendly faces lost in gentle thought
With comforting shadows warming their hearts
Sitting back and beginning to go

Fingers clamour, key by key
On obedient machines ready to paint pictures
Of little letters holding hands
To become a perfect masterpiece

They watch diligently with curious looking eyes
As their hands dance across the board
Step by step, checking their form
Like an actress playing in performance

Like groups of musicians, painters, and more
But muse and paint is not what they do
They are painters of a different medium
Who write all with pen and quill too

Creative minds weaving baskets of English
Bundled with words of mystical magic
They are the few destined to stumble into Narnia
They are a different few, we call writers