* * *
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?