As Written By Black River

My home is but a pauper's-pot, but I don't seek the kiss of fame. My journey is a humble one, lit by a tiny pillar's flame. The moon is full again tonight; another story I shall tell. Here comes my noble architect who fetches me from writer's-well. You see, I flow throughout a world with rules that hardly ever stick. My legend's length is measured by the metronome of wooden-tick. Just like a painter's gentle stroke, I too must mark the vacant page. And so, my liquid coal does flow upon an unsuspecting stage. My boundaries aren't natural, no banks of earth to keep me in. I bend to bordered alphabets set forth by master's pinion-pen. And with this structured ebony I captivate the anxious eyes of those who'd choose to wade across my current of artistic lies. I know too well the witches' brew of adder's fork and eye of newt. I know how hard it is to pick a Peter Piper pepper root. So many souls have wandered off; my fountain's pace led them astray. "This is their choice," my guide would say, and he I dare not disobey. Alas, the fire is at its end, as is my dusky fluid's will. I leave you with one final word: acknowledge him who wields the quill. ~Black River~