The dark is lit up by one sign of life

A face washed aglow by one single light

With clattering keys and eyes narrow with strife

An author is born one cold autumn night

 

Just a hundred words more, and then she may stop

Or mayhaps rush on towards a dazzling scene

Armed with a pencil or a loyal laptop

She writes ever on, as if in a dream

 

Movie-like her thoughts churn behind flashing eyes

Fingers fly to keep up, slowly falling behind

A world made of letters before her does rise

Growing greater and vaster through power of mind

 

An art made of ink and of paper and wit

Brings forth a treasure unique of all things

There are times that this author longs only to quit

But a story, once chosen, doggedly clings

 

A book is not born without labor and pain

And truly an author flirts often with strife

Just when you think that your work's without gain

Unbidden but welcome, from the page there springs life