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Laying down a stolen thought from torrid minds,
Yearnings of a lonely heart,
Secret entries of a girl
That in her father’s eye would
Call upon the rage of Hell …
Or simple notes – nudges
For the memory of self;
Doodles in the boredom.
I could never dream of days devoid of ink. What of
Toils of talent honed in literary cliques,
A poet in romantic storm,
A novel born of devastating yarns?
And the harmony and melody of tune –
A mighty mind of music penning out
Contortions of emotion thro’ the scale
And clef to let the hand in play
convert the purple into soulful airs,
Or rhapsodies or other lyric forms;
Musician’s tears to titillate – enchant
A silent house until the end,
When approbation will resound!
I could never live a life bereft of quills –
What a barren crux for humankind –
A dearth of scholars’ tomes,
An author’s prose no more to share –
The belletristic want would kill the mind
In such a bleak affair.