Word after word,
phrase after phrase,
Give me a rest from my own daze,
Along the page of typo dialogue.
Page after page,
Ink after ink,
The writer does claim to think.
In the twists' and turns' of the author's story,
They reside in their own glories'.
Maybe the author never leaves the desk,
But by dusk, has travelled through space and time,
Through dark ages', realms',
Catching rebellions' of hell,
In a quest not to be misled.
After dark has come and dawning is up,
The author tries at best to request,
Breakfast on the balcony of a beautiful villa, with a friend the chinchilla,
As the author pull's out the plans' for the next chapter,
At hand.
He look's down at the ground, haven't left the seat,
While the author rejoices in the retreat.
Of the beautiful landscape that the words' have formed and the path to the cottage, of fairies' and goblins'.
To the next adventure of stallion horses' and knights' that ride in flight over the hills' of land that the winds' remember of time begone.
The author tries to gather at pace the air and grace,
The catcher of dreams', the living memory of story upon story,
The author.
