Life is wrought a letter,

Written slow to live the read,

Longing to be tucked away,

For living long in Heart.

And yours, while still it beats,

Pumps Ink unto the Pages,

For of your veins the Pen writes

And guides the Letters there.

Well, when in reading them,

Words they whisper sights unseen;

Proses’ fragrance welling in

The eyes of Yesteryear.

So see we, fickle Wind,

Winter Springs and Summer Falls,

Waxing wanes and lining lines,

The years now lying low.

And in end, sign your name,

Last Ink, last Blood, a closing,

Last words read, and wonder of

Love of your composing.

So fear not barren Page,

Nor Pen for too it falters,

Hear me now in tongue of heart,

You Muses' sons and daughters:

You live: sea the farthest sees,

Where in dance the Heart and Head,

Sing the ballads flame and thick,

Let silent Love be said.

Whirl the fancy gladly,

Not mirror arrow fingers,

Speak the Starlight, shining eyes,

Whilst heart-laughter lingers.

Sapphire sights whorl the Word,

So paint you as your fleeting,

Free the Dove the Love in Flight,

Fletch the Etches greeting.

Flying high, glide the sky,

Just as love like earthly low,

Living to taste the Fruits of

The Seeds of Self we sow.

So fear you not the Page,

So fear you nor the Binding,

For clearest sights are seen in:

This Letter Life so blinding.