Thou be knowst the wit of quill.
Words breathe for a heart awoken.
Tis thoughts of brevity upon the page doth spill.
A truer soul never be spoken.
Waves whip against the shore.
The leaves of Autumn, hue colors divine.
My question say "Nature what doth for?"
The setting is sketched forevermore to shine.
An author sees life within such context.
Expression stings the whip of meaning.
A pretensed god of paper silently hexed.
Shammed lives forged only from dreaming.
Working to live, may man find the right purpose.
Writing, for some humans, slowly nurtures.