[The Scribe]

The written word is a written joke.
Behind these lines lie words, like spokes
keeping the rim of the wheel solid, and sure;
keeping the rubber rolling forward, evermore.

The visual barriers beyond the paper.
The concept of love muddled until later.
In the heart of the night, cold winds are howling:
a quesion some would never dare to think of asking-
Does this matter, after all is said and done?
Do words push back the shadows as sure as the rising sun?
"Write it down," the world demands.
But how can one steady such nervous, shaking hands?
With the very will to inform (to survive, to inspire),
there is no will to conform (to the lies; to truth under fire!)

Words can inspire the truth,
but how do they inspire you?
Uniformity is last in the line
when priorities
are check, this time.

Writing a verse to fill up the pages;
a convenient snapshot of truth through words
that lasts through the very ages.