The manuscript pleads,
and I answer its distress.
The yellow parchment
becomes home to my stories.
Sadly, the plot never varies,
as I recycle the same
five to twenty lines every
session, unless it stipulates
more effort in multiples of five.

The red ink dries and flakes,
turns black from a lack of use.
My quill, waiting a dip,
lays crusty and dull.
The book's alter waits in dust.
It hungers for my attention,
draws me closer to the ledge,
and pushes me to reach and renew
the well...