The Writer
Her mind was the River of Acheron
Still she was full of grace
She’d dance
Through the stroke of her pen against a fresh paper
Her face was worn and tired
Like she’d seen years past her own
Too busy thinking to enjoy the view
Yet
With the pictures she painted
How could she not see?
Not believe in the world she created?
Her mind was a haven of Genesis
And when she was alone
She’d dance
Through the stroke of her pen against a fresh paper