And for whatever intrudes my mind,
I must passionately write my find.

For if I do not express my might,
I will have forged a loss of sight.

And I do tumble into this abyss of war,
for the description of my ancient lore.

I must foreshadow my artful taste,
lest I would like my talents to go to waste.

For underneath this setting sun,
the mahogany rays do glimpse my writing fun.

For underneath this setting moon,
the shadows do forecast my boon.

And these are the words from my heart,
from which my effort does not part.

As without it I have no sparing of life,
like a humanitarian who wields the hilt of a knife.

And I have to wield the holster of my sword,
lest I wish to be one of these flawed.

So come on to me, my raging success,
lest you wish I succumb to this distress.