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 and polish and sharpen
the quill after I gather the worn book.

The damned hunger places
the wrong emphasis on task order.
The well and quill comes first,
before the book opens to a fresh
page that desires a new story.
But, I sit and write in confusion,
and five lines bloom from dips
into a desolate well.
Before I stop to ponder
the lack of variance,
the well holds a growing pool of bitter red ink
The book is thick as thirty years
have passed in cyclical continuance.
No translation exists to tell these stories.
They're personal and not for others.
Few comprehend the importance underneath
the unwavering howls streaking throughout
the events dawning the daunting journey.

© Hesher John

Revised repost from Poetizer.