The Scribe

Silly little b-ing

Taking stock in everything

Recording the day

The date

And the Hour

The building,


And falling from towers.

The light of the night

The night of the Light

The working and playing’s,

The leaving and staying's.

Building a road

in words and prayer,

Speaking to Ancients

at the top

Of the stair.

Criss-Cross, lock jaw,

Don't ask him what he's written

He can't really say.

It was all just the view

That he saw looking through

me and you.




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