Friday, October 8, 2010

The Minstrel - A Poem

Friday, October 8Th, 5:58 P.M.
Mood: Whimsical, Musical
Music: Remember When It Rained, by Josh Groban

A Note: This poem was written for a friend of mine, who is an author. It symbolizes all who write, read, and enjoy the stories that pour forth from the mind of a writer.

The Minstrel - A Poem

Look upon the ink that traces,
gentle lines upon the faces,

Of the ancient, cracking pages,
of the tale yet to come forth.

See her hand as it goes flitting,
adding lines both new and fitting,

To the story waiting to be born.

Hour on hour 'til time grows late,
weaving tales of death and fate,

What could cause that such a state,
should intrude upon the mind?

So it seems that she is fated,
still she writes here unabated,

though the hour grows late and light grows dim.

Spinning stories, weaving tales,
from her open mind that hails,

To the stories as they enter one by one.

Words, like rain pours from her pen,
crossed out, revised, then scrawled again,

Upon the page as blank and white as snow.

Lives and stories,
deaths and glories,

come from the hand that strokes the page.

Ghosts that flit about the gloom,
stories, told inside the room,

were she sits and writes yet still.

Dreams they are, that pour forth waiting,
to be told, of love and hating,

upon the page that waits.

Dreams, for without them we are nothing.

For what are we ourselves?

I shall tell you.


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