King Midas has his gold.
The writer has his folly.

He’s broken bread on a tale or two.
Hundreds of scores, blessed by few.

Memories dwindle between the pages,
Pieces of self transcribed over ages.

Words written today,
Swiftly begin to fade.

Every line which is writ,
Leaves scars, oozing grit.

Nobody is the same as Yesterday,
But what’s this chameleon to say?

An invader most foreign has arised.
Dooming with thoughts of demise.

The cycle of ancient history,
All creation forgotten in tomorrow’s mystery.