Your cynical stride will seldom foretell
Of the struggles within your personal Hell;
Your words are your walk,
Spread with whispers and talk,
Like rancid butter on your side of the bread.
Your hat tilted down in its own sort of frown,
You step inside with a smile.
The court room’s ablaze,
And in the heat of your gaze,
No other writer dares glance in your direction.
You tread upon a red carpet of sin,
So they say of your fame and your glory;
Despite what they say about every story,
They know not the pain from within.
Though twilight lingers at the top of the world,
The stage is dark when your curtain’s unfurled.
Beneath the jocular tone you display,
Your semblance of wisdom has given way.
There’s a crown of thorns that you must wear
As the crowd continues to jeer and to stare.
Night after night like that pile of papers,
Your typewriter sings but your hearing tapers.
What good is music to the deaf?
What are words worth when they mean nothing,
If they are not written to be sincere?
While being a cynic’s your fascination,
It will not serve as consolation.
You love only your words and never cry,
At least not before the crowd’s cruel eye;
What doest the king alone in his court,
When friends are few and supply is short?
Perhaps when alone the king will see,
Despite the words he writes so masterfully,
That he is ever king of sorrow,
Writing alone into tomorrow.
This poem was written as a tribute to a character from *Inherit The Wind*, one of my favorite plays. My English class read it aloud this year, and I absolutely loved the character E.K. Hornbeck; apparently, I was inspired enough to write a poem about him.