The feather pen lifted from the page and, finally, he had written his last. He wanted no thunderous applause or any awards of gold and gems. Neither did he desire to be immortalized in the pages of history for countless generations. Overwhelming admiration is, well, just that: overwhelming. As his works were printed and sold all throughout the land for lords and dukes and earls and even the king himself he knew what he had to do.
He sat up from his creaky chair and gave his work one long lasting gaze before shuffling to the main entrance.
Donning a large coat, scarf, hat and walking stick he picked up the sack he packed throughout the week and slung it over his shoulder. He gave a sad look over his home before passing through the doorway and onwards to the highway.
They say he can still be found if you follow the tears he shed along that road...
Much more a short story than a poem, but I hope you guys like it! :)
