A pen in hand is a tongue in palm that prints letters in a papyrus

A compiled notes are a song of time buzzing, like a hum in solitude

Ringing, from your brain to ear; and then from your ear to mouth: clicking your tongue

The words are in the end of it. You close your eyes and wander around

A stygian loom in the cave of world. An eigengrau; ‘tis not I’m fallible!

There’s a glow from an inspiration kindled aspirations to scribble

A jolting words in a string of mind drawn from ephemeral memory

In the dance of words from mind to hand, in the stroke of ink on a paper

In the beat of heart, vigor of mind; a letter is born to be a torch

Accompanied with glorious music the bearer of civilization

A torch to posterity; a wit to unsung predecessors

An index to glorious successors – it can be salvation, damnation

It can build herculean leverage or liliputian erudition

You can have a world in your pocket and a pixies guise of an angel

That grant death to a buried living a kiss of life to an appeased death

‘Tis a piece of Psyche in titillation, an ideal illusory cortex

Lo, a puppet with a heart of ink.