Pen glides over paper
Fingers gloss over keys

The poet dons his armor
Pen sword sharpened
Ready for battle

He fights through fatigue
And quiets mental shouting
Clawing through layers
To hear that quiet voice

Images slowly trickle
Hearts beating
Hearts broken
Birds flittering
Love blooming

Each scene a thousand words
But only one whispers urgent

The call of the pen
This night for the poet
Is the war he wages

Battling the echoes of rhyme
And the voices of reason
Forgoing sweet sleep
To leave his mark
Upon this new age

Where screens hypnotize
And technicolor holograms
Replace blue skies
Where instant gratification
Is the only God served

But a lions heart beats
Beneath that armor
And a pen sword
He firmly believes
Is mightier than fine silver

He hangs his head
With heavy sigh
And knows his only choice
Is to bear his trusted pen
And begin.