You lay on the table, gloomy, but when the quill dipped the ink
My thoughts were incoherent but it at least got me to think
The emotions I did bungle and often did I caper
Seldom got it right when you put words to paper
The dusty papyrus bundled up in a big wide sheaf
The abstract curiously takes some shape as you turn over a new leaf
You may have filled in you though delible ink a dime
Colour may fade later but your essence is etched on time
Speaking of an adage, curiously it is more often than not
The faintest of the ink is always stronger than a memorized thought
The poet, the author contemplating and immersed pensively alone
You are bonded to them like a sculptor and his chisel to his mighty stone
Contented when you stop and say that I’ve wrote it all
Mysteriously there appears a writing on the wall
Your nib, sharp and resolute scribbles furiously on the obverse and the rear
But at times fate intervenes sadly and reminds you to simply sign here
Ambitions held aloft and when destiny gives you the wink
And there in irony it may seem so that you’ve not dried the ink
Providence flows through your veins right up to your point
For it is you to finally decide who gets to anoint
But this world is ephemeral and sadly the end is near
This you must behold for all those whom you may smear.
On the judgment day, the divine scribe holding you, wishes us well
As finally it is one’s deeds that lands one in the heaven or in the hell.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 9:34 AM UTC
You lay on the table, gloomy, but when the quill dipped the ink
My thoughts were incoherent but it at least got me to think
The emotions I did bungle and often did I caper
Seldom got it right when you put words to paper
The dusty papyrus bundled up in a big wide sheaf
The abstract curiously takes some shape as you turn over a new leaf
You may have filled in you though delible ink a dime
Colour may fade later but your essence is etched on time
Speaking of an adage, curiously it is more often than not
The faintest of the ink is always stronger than a memorized thought
The poet, the author contemplating and immersed pensively alone
You are bonded to them like a sculptor and his chisel to his mighty stone
Contented when you stop and say that I’ve wrote it all
Mysteriously there appears a writing on the wall
Your nib, sharp and resolute scribbles furiously on the obverse and the rear
But at times fate intervenes sadly and reminds you to simply sign here
Ambitions held aloft and when destiny gives you the wink
And there in irony it may seem so that you’ve not dried the ink
Providence flows through your veins right up to your point
For it is you to finally decide who gets to anoint
But this world is ephemeral and sadly the end is near
This you must behold for all those whom you may smear.
On the judgment day, the divine scribe holding you, wishes us well
As finally it is one’s deeds that lands one in the heaven or in the hell.