Sunday, November 3, 2013

The Essayist

She often wrote well into night
Pen to paper by lowered light
When color faded from the day
Words would dance like a cabaret of birds in flight

Most of the stories with her name
Would never bring her much acclaim
This knowledge never stopped her pen
Writing prose again and again, without the fame

A deep love of the written word
Allowed the quiet girl be heard
She bared her soul upon the page
The lady’s passion grew with age, quite undeterred

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