A writer born,
Writes ‘til death,
From early morn,
To final breath.

With pen in hand,
And parchment-slip,
He shows command,
Of wit and quip.

A tragedy here,
A comedy there,
To summon both tears,
And laughter fair.

Evokes in you,
A smile wide,
To show what’s true,
What’s locked inside.

A mystery then,
To speak your name,
To spark within,
That fading flame.

Of hope and love,
Of things forgot,
A memory of,
A world we lost.