Why do I write?

Perhaps it is the true

expression of inner sentiment,

The meeting

Pencil upon paper,

The outpouring of

Idea after idea,

Thought after thought;

The mere pleasure

Is a grace that

Soothes nerves far

Entangled by the

Hurricane that is life.

The fury of the

Day tramples by,

As it shall,

Yet it can never

Truly measure to that

Pleasing, effusive pleasure

Of speaking of it

All, feelings rocketing

As the day abates.

It creates a symphony

Of words and the abstract;

That which cannot quite

Be said, yet so

Mellifluously combined,

A song of a thousand

Birds, or men, or flutes;

The master of such

An instrument being

The writer at hand.

A book in hand,

A candle, warmly, duly lit;

Nature about me

At the stake of twilight;

Lush gardens upon an

Endlessly rolling hill;

The crest of night

And the gale's cry

About us all;

The stuff, the very

Workings of a mind

So bent upon

A task so worthy.

Perhaps this, the mere

Pleasure, of this

Expression, this wondrous

Synthesis of the matter

Within the great

Cornucopia of the mind,

Perhaps still

Is why I write.