The Writer

There once was a man who understood the soul in ways not imaginable.

And in secrecy, he wrote all the words that flourished from his heart.

His day and age, however, found it to be quite unfashionable.

Still he continued to explore, all depths of the soul.

But not a word came from his mouth, only alcoholic slurs and nothing more.

And one day in his drunkenness, he took a look at the world around him.

Immoral uncertainties, wandering souls, empty lives, and dead dreams.

He then looked at himself within himself and saw that what was once so bright was now dim.

He had consumed himself with indecent pleasures of the world, hiding every sentiment.

He had convinced himself that the world wasn’t in need of his gift that He who sees all had sent.

And with every sip of what was thought to numb the pain, his heart had become so congested with the tragedies of the souls around him.

And it got to him.

And he wanted to vitalize the flame that was now dim.

And so the man did what he did best.

And wrote all that was hidden beneath his chest.

Not a word came from his mouth, nor a slur in his speech.

And all in secrecy that had flourished from his heart, he spread to the world with a pen and a paper sheet.

And he did this till he could no longer, till his mind had deteriorated.

But his words lived on and touched the hearts of those like himself.

And eventually his words touched souls and darkness was deflated.

And the flame that had become dim became brighter.

He was then forever known as the writer.

-E.A.