The Writer

With her weary hands she writes wonderful words,
Upon the blank to written page,
These strong hands do eloquently write,
These strong hands too painfully try,
But the words seem so much,
Almost too much for this forte writer,
The phrase it seems to have grown,
Shinning in the pale light of the moon,
And in is growth it does take its toll,
Her heavy heart, her heart now old,
The page calls once more,
Her hands they answer,
Consumed with pride the writer subsides,
And steps away from her work,
Until the sun rises again,
And the page calls out once more.

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