I was the child, now, man grown,
Reaping what so long ago was sewn,
Still striding through unending night,
Toward tomorrow, that far off pinprick of light.
Oh my comfort,
Night….Shadows reflected on the walls,
From the flickering of a candle bright,
Sound of scratching…Quill on parchment,
Echoes in the halls,
As I continue my quest of sorrow, and write,
Of the failures, the triumphs,
The humps and bumps,
Tears of happiness,
Tears of sadness,
Staining the parchment, blurring my sight,
So I see not the words,
Who will read them, who will care?
“Not many”….You answer…..
My apparition of love standing there.
“For they have their own path to follow,
Their own plough to furrow,
Their own mistakes to make,
Their own love to take or forsake.
Just be thankful, for what you had once yourself,
Stop that lonely scratching with the quill,
Put your writings where they belong on the shelf,
Then, one day when you have the need,
Take them down, reflect and read,
Maybe then you won’t feel the same,
Forgotten the pain, feel ready again,
To take your place and rejoin life’s game,
Where, there are truly no losers, or winners,
Only saints and sinners,
Depending on which way you look at it,
On which side of the fence you sit,
So…Lighten up, lessen the load,
Instead of writing all that sorrow,
Scribe yourself a brand new code”.