Thou art a scribe of diction fine,
Of eloquence that doth entwine,
Yet, in thy melancholic tone,
Lies a sorrowful truth unknown.
Thy words imbued with deep insight,
In metonymy they take to flight,
And in their flight, they bring to view,
A glimpse of pain that's close to you.
For thou art not just a wordsmith,
But a soul in turmoil - as is myth,
And though your pen may flow with ease,
Your heart bears scars that none can appease.
So, write on, scribe, and let it flow,
For in the words, thy pain doth show,
But know that in the verse you spin,
Lies a story of you within.
©jamielong
J