There is a dark shadow In the corner of my room. I did not notice it at first, But I think it has been there for months- Growing- And growing- And snuffing out the light.
I only realize its presence now- As half of the room Is shrouded in darkness.
He carves words he has spoken Of promises unbroken whispering into the dark Chiselling delicately into her bones With tobacco juice to bring out the tones Quietly engraving symbols and psalms Living for the night Working through to the light Communing only through dreams In daylight she's secure Inside a white Alder tree Protected and respected Her spirit flies free
In my arms, or simply right beside me, I will watch over You as you dream. As soft moonlight transitions gradually into the gentle rays of the coming dawn, I will be here to meet you first. For you are my sweetest good night, and all that is good in the morning.
Do you know what helps a writer write? Is it the way that he feels for you? That wistful yearning, ever prevalent, consuming the entirety of his days. Is it in the distance? Miles apart and yet so undeniably close. Is it in the moments spent with you? Infinity times Infinity. Or is it your love that he has, every waking moment, that helps a writer write?