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
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