Writer’s Magic

The lonely scribbler is a king,

For he can conjure anything.

Despite the endless definitions,

Rhymesters are the true magicians.

Conjured words here and there,

Waiting, floating in the air.

Magic flowing from a pen,

May shake a writer now and then.

A journey along a mystic way,

With corporal notions held at bay.

Glimpses of an immortal world,

The magic curtain of rhyme unfurled.

Time to wonder, time to think,

Capturing poetry with ink.

Common words, their worth concealed;

See the power that they yield.

Lines may be loose or terse,

When breathing magic into verse.

Matter taken from a world external,

But based on life from time eternal.

Mundane truths and worldly dealings,

All wrapped up in a poet’s feelings.

Notions take the breath away.

Brushed aside, they tend to stay.

Passing judgement’s not the goal,

While looking at another’s soul.

Like burning embers turning cold,

As the span of day grows slowly old.

The nightly scribbler wears a crown,

Until his magic pen lays down.

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