* * *

The scrivener's dry hands laid down

the parchment raw with cursive wounds.

He tersely rolled the paper 'round

and thus, the bleeding words entombed.

With every loop the ink did flow,

with every dot and every dash

and letters into words did grow,

with every stab and every slash.

The wisdom of the sages past

was long since loosed upon the world,

providing for the scribe's repast,

as quills upon the pages twirled.

And who would hear the howling pain

of words as they are caught and held

to pages, day and day again,

their freedom robbed and their flight felled?