The riot of words was unstoppable;
He composed feverishly through night and day.
Liberated from the confines of black and white
Each character was captured in hues of grey.
Seasoned with a dash of punctuation
Each passage was a reader’s delight;
With every stroke of the pen in his notebook
A literary masterpiece was coming into sight.
He was a stranger to this feeling of freedom
For he knew not that this is where he belonged;
Hemmed in by morality, cloaked in a social avatar,
He was a writer whose conscience had been wronged.
No comments:
Post a Comment