My pen is ever-moving, ever-soaring,
across endless pages of serene white,
it tells of waterfalls ever-roaring,
and stars in dark skies, shining bright.
Even if I wanted, I could not cease,
it's infinitely beautiful string of ryhmes,
It speaks of Rome, and ancient Greece,
and tells of tales from Midevil Times.
I cannot possibly ignore it's call,
even now in the middle of night,
it wants to reveal a great city's fall,
it continues to tell me, I must yet write.
Yet I want my pen to keep ever-going,
for I love the tales it weaves,
of an elf in a canoe, ever-rowing,
or when the peasant, the king's gift, recieves.
