Wordplay
There will come a time
when words won’t come
as easily as they have before.
The mind is a fine machine
that produces lines of gold,
eventually it runs short of ore.
While mine is working still
I’ll sift it for what remains
in pockets yet over played.
Poetic license is not renewable.
No expiration date exists,
yet it may be slowly decayed.
I’ll treasure the words mightily,
seeking to be a suitable host
so they’ll choose to appear.
When the strain on the brain
causes onset of lyrical havoc
I’ll surmise the end is near.
Writing is not my lifeline
it certainly has filled a void
nothing else stepped up to fill.
Seeing a story materialize,
with imagination cranking,
cylinders responding to my will.
Oh yes, the story is the prime
reason I grope for the words,
to flesh out scenarios with zest.
A funny thought, a romance caught
on the horns of a dilemma
can be the shaped at my behest.
A fond memory of days gone by,
the little things that have made us cry
enjoin to make the story proceed.
When the day comes that the words
won’t come to stoke my fire
it’ll be a sad moment in my life, indeed.
When I can no longer amuse myself
with the lyrical stories I hold so dear
I’ll have to be content with my legacy
There’s a published book on a shelf
that was written by myself
and that can never be taken from me.
beautifully penned.
Your words are everlasting.
nicely penned. your right, it can never be taken from you.