An Envoy of Spirit
From the first caveman’s colored clay on a wall
Until the quill made its first slanted scrawl
The mind’s muddled mixture was ruling them all
Impermanent eyes with permanent sight
Into the times of nothing but dark
Under candlelit scrolls did words give the spark
For rebellions against the oligarchs
Envoys of spirit for the virtuous fight
Feelings contained within paper and pen
Laying dormant and waiting through ages of men
For the day that they can be felt again
Ambassadors of faith in our shared insight
Words hold the power, and so it seems fair
To treat the words with grace and with duty and care
When whittling with gold there can be nothing left spare
Respect for the carrier of the past’s fading light
This must be why in the torturous times
Of vomiting verbs and wrangling rhymes
No solace is found in the often heard lines
That a writer’s not a writer, but somebody who writes
