Ode to the Writer

I write this ode to you, mighty vile of ink,
as you draw yourself to my fingers,
like a child in need of a home.
And I write to you, commanding graphite twig,
scrawling letters page after page
at my dominion.
And finally, I write my words to the keys,
tiny black squares with white marks,
like dominos written in calligraphy.
My words, my perspective, my emotions
scrawled on the ancient cave walls of the universe,
adorning the corners of notebook paper in glittering ink,
hiding on paper napkins in Tuesday night’s garbage.
This is my mission, my indispensable need
to decorate the pages in my life with
terms of insight and adventure.
A passion is my escapade with the written word,
leaving clues of mirrors and secrets and betrayal
woven into the fabric of worldly tales yet to be told.
As I write to you, almighty tool,
I remember all the tales of my childhood,
trails of breadcrumbs and eggs perched on high walls.
I recall stories from later years,
star-crossed lovers and yellow cars tearing breasts from flappers.
I reach into my archives of plot and theme and I think to myself –
How can I write something like this?
I gaze at the flawless executions of practiced novelists,
wondering if I can ever achieve their success.
And so I write this ode to you, esteemed someone
who fathered the art of the written word,
inspiring millions of people like me to put pen to paper,
divulging their muses to the universe.