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Dull wordsmith
I once glided my quill through the paper,
the words flowed like the river to the sea,
slow and quiet sometimes,
swift and ferocious sometimes.
The window to another world opened
as my fingers hugged the quill,
words forged and engraved onto the paper.
No matter the time,
whether dusk or dawn,
a world where I saw great knights,
women of heart,
sweet lovers sharing nectar,
king of the people,
to hungry hyenas and life drowning,
all in a few lines of syllables.
Now I think and think,
unable to pick up the hammer
I once held,
burners getting cold and tools losing their edge,
paper being soaked with tears rather than ink,
the window gathering dust as new friends,
and losing the grip
and stopping it all.
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