The Unmighty

Night falls amidst silence and whispering words,
a scratching sound,rough on smooth,
pen cuts throughs paper,moulding words
from the cluttered mind of youth.

He leaves his mind in volcanic mimic
erupting and spitting flaming floods,
chained he was in a spell of a society,
finally released through written words.

When he writes a laughter,he smiles,
when he pens a tear,he cries,
of sadness he finds parallels and wounds,
of mirth no memory,so he lies.

Imagination wild as the creatures
his pen strokes,
drunk in the self consuming power,
that writing of human life invokes.

In the palm of his shaky hand,
the future lies, of unborn men,
a God in his own mind,he understands,
that destiny bows servile to his pen.

Must he be kind?Must the Mighty show mercy?
He starts off another write.
As he finishes his mind reads,
a mocking laughter greets his writing so trite!

He shudders and grips reality 
for support, as truth dawns,
a writer is but the vehicle,
of his work..an unsuspecting pawn.