A writer lives a thousand lives, and none,
And though a life may be worth more than words,
The words remain when every life is done.

The mind and pen together become one,
And in the end despite what might be yearned,
The writer lives a thousand lives, and none.

Scribbled by the light of a dying sun,
Read in silence or sung as though by birds,
The words remain when every life is done.

Ignored by the world, all too likely shunned,
And filled with doubt when every page is earned,
The writer lives a thousand lives, and none.

Though every battle's lost, the war is won.
The aftermath leaves naught but what is heard:
The words remain when every life is done.

As dawn breaks on a planet newly turned,
Perhaps we're left with one last lesson learned:
A writer lives a thousand lives, and none;
The words remain when every life is done.