The Root

This is not just another simple tale
Heaped with words, meaningless, devoid of soul
Every letter printed in this entails
Reflections of thought, both the new and old
Earnest, each cast lovingly from the mind's mould

Slowly crafted for hours of endless night
Heavy with the day's countless beads of thought
At long last, this phrase stands ready for flight
Leaving the mind, every bead firmly caught
Lest it slip, and never reach the paper port

Now traversing through the nervous highway
Entwined with stress, joys and wordless feelings
Veering gently to the fingertips bay
Etches its sketch upon the skin ceiling
Relaying the message for the pen's revealing

Begin at last! This story of a Life
Encapsulated with such hope and strife

As bleeding ink makes contact with the pad
New worlds arise and fall in seconds mere
Of nature, life and hate this author glad
To release into words, his every fear
Haltingly, heavily, smooth and lightly
Ever changing syllables, for quietly
Reasons to confess often come nightly

Slipping through the silent static swiftly
To try and touch the tip of time and trust
Over all obstacles of obliquely
Ridged wretched rhythms reddening with rust
Yielding yesterday's hope-yearning youth

Line by line, stroke by stroke the pen will fall
In time with music conducting the hand
Knitting brokenness with ink drawn from all
Eternal dreams, weaved from a crumbling land

My story never will have a brother
In similarities or views akin
Not a simple tale of just another
Ergo my story ends here, so long. Fin.

[There Shall Never Be Another Story Like Mine]