Saturday, 15 February 2014

The Pen (The World's Slave)

I used to leave my mark on ancient walls,
To show a bout or tell a tale of war,
Display a yarn in words a man recalls,
Recording what has happened long before.
A story shown on faded cuts of leaf,
I cast my soul upon a manuscript,
I give a voice to those who couldn’t speak,
They now express themselves without their lips.
With scribes of God I wrote the prodigy,
My point is moved by hands of famous men,
I tell the past with brutal honesty,
Then from my body flows the ink again.
A path of love I poured upon a page,
To hopeless music, writ and sold today.

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