I bump along in Braille,
Float on paper so frail,
Come to you in the mail,
Complicate fictitious heads,
Encompass all from A's to Z's,
Walk the path the writer treads.

My essence fills countless pages,
Speaks of life's different stages,
Takes you back to previous ages,
Grasps the meaning of the soul,
Makes spoken words become whole,
Is vividly cast in many a role.

I seep out from the author's pen,
Far surpassing words from men,
For I stay now as written then.
I blot a page at times with strife,
Score the paper deeply like a knife,
In a sentence I remould a life.

A universe I become here,
Friend of great men like Shakespeare,
I give moisture to the tear,
And harmony to the laughter;
A despiction of something forever-after,
From any soul- my only crafter