I always thought,
what a thing to create,
what a thing to write a thought.
It has been said,
the pen and the sword,
the latter loses.
Yet who seems greater, I bet,
the sword cuts the writer in two.
So is it true,
history is shaped by the pen?
Is the past ours to own,
to keep in shelves and look back on,
to feed our past when we’re in the dark?
Or is the past a lie written,
of sins unforgiven?
Is the past a monster,
in our thoughts to haunt,
hungry for time,
eating up our future,
to drag us through a circus,
till life is past,
and only vanity is left?
Life is a writer,
truly skilled, ironic to the bone.
He writes by night as we sleep,
by day as we speak, still in the black.
Because he is accurate to the core,
and he comes in to every door.
He gets in without a knock,
and writes on our souls as we watch.
theScribe 