My fingers tremble as they grip the quill
of ebony and sapphire, depth and dark,
with traces of vermilion instilled.
The inkwell of my memories, so stark
and yet so frail and fuzzy, slowly boils
from years of frenzy never channeled. Now
the vellum seems to scream, and all my toils
will never tell me why I write, or how.
It pierces me until my fingers weep
and makes no promise to repay my pains.
Yet still, the truth, the beauty, dark and deep,
with flames of joy–I know these are my gains.
The ecstasy is slow, the labor long,
but still I write, and sing Creation’s song.