Forlorn Gift

He just signed a grand contract in curves of ink I worship now, memories of writing on frayed pages fade with twirling winds of time. Dark ages of catastrophic wars lit by my poured hope in desk lamp. His grandmother healed prisoners in pain with their agony preserved in diaries, legends, hope, lost days of love, they narrated, she wrote, I absorbed. Ah! What freedom I'd experienced being a scribe's magic wand of faith, a light to the tattered world in rags shone across grey skies to guide derelict souls with valor on journeys, I'd been a mighty sword in disguise. Gifted to him in a transformed world, beneath crumbling desires I weep, I crave to pen emotions not business, my brave stories in graves asleep. June 25, 2020 The Old Scribe Poetry Contest Sponsor: craig cornish ~Winner: 4th Place