Why does a writer write?

Is it for fame

Is it for praise

Or to make the world

a beautiful place

Yes it is.....

But that's still not it.

The words

They are little pieces

of the heart

Tiny windows

through which the soul peeps

There's no him without them

And no them without him

Never were, and never will be

A writer writes

because the words

are his permanence

in the transient world

They are all he is

And was

And all he wishes to be

They are his breath

His tears

His desires

And his fears

He is the brightest shining star

and they are his galaxies

A writer lives to write

And he writes to live

In his words lies his eternity. 

© Manic Sylph 2016