Abraham John Jaggernauth
The Poet and The Paper
Talk to me he cries, talk to me it cries,
Looking up at him, he looking down at it.
He asking it for a word, it beckoning him on,
He beginning to write, it begins to smile.
He writes his first words, it displays his mind,
The word is First, its line now signed.
The words continue, it displaces space.
First I Start, Then I Think; it, marks the writers ink,
Then I Go On and Start Again; it makes another space a dead end.
He furthers his pen to pen some more, its greatest delight to feed off galore,
To feel the light stoke of its bite, it captures all he might write.
To pen his pen on all its lines, to make all its space slight and fine.
He now writes another page, to add to add its joy is made,
Single by single stroke he makes, to cover its entire page.
He sets out, to finish his write, it loves the script and loves his smile.
Satisfaction has his hand; its just the same - the paper, The End.
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