The Writer’s Arrow

A playful artist he was
Soulful, skillful, unafraid
Where his peers used brute force
His weapon was the pen
Its tip, like an arrow
Ink held in a well
Much as a quiver.

He was a man of ideas.
Thrust upon the great stage
Far too soon, before his time
Still, he held firm, fired his arms
Faithful lieutenants all around
He chose his battles with care
He learned the ways of the enemies

Before long, the young man
Was respected, feared, exhaulted.
But he suffered a darkness
His was an addiction of the heart
A thirst only quenched by woman’s touch
It drove him mad beyond reason.
Soon he would fall from grace.

Some still speak of him in whispers
Other don’t speak at all
In the end all that matters to him
Was getting the story, telling the truth
Even if doing so would lead to his fall.

Power of Words

One thought on “The Writer’s Arrow

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s