The Writer

So too journeyed a storyteller of Tall tales and other fantasies thereof. Standing tall in his silence, brooding so, Commanding attention where he did go. Except for times, I swear I’ve truly seen, Him disappear, as though within a dream. In his heavy hand he wields a worn pen, With which the force of ignorance he fends Off, in his hope that in another age, A remedy can be found to assuage That which torments the body and the mind. That lack of greater knowledge which does bind, Near every mortal man who seeks to find, Lest he and kin be ever rendered blind. Sure, he do speak with measured words of wit, To tell the truth, yet failing to acquit His hearted captors which do trap his soul, Leaving his creations stark, never full. Vast wonders he creates with solely thought, Always seeking but never having sought, The key to that infernal keeping cage, That limits his transcriptions to lined page. Alone in life, his quest, he standeth firm. Regretting knowledge lost, never to learn.