None withstanding the light of the dark,

The sword, the armor, and the Knight’s Mark.

Across these few trampled plains.

The wind weepers and the ghost’s chains

Dancing across the white banks of papyrus.

Inkling shadows from a written virus.

The sun, the moon, and the stars. Under the point of a pen they shine,

From the unleashed imagination of mine.

The ideas, like wind-strum storming strike, narrate the journey of the many.

The fire whispers. The blotted slips and the uncanny plenty,

These characters, reap their story.

The strong, the weak, the willed, the mysterious, the shame, and the glory.

They march under marching banners,

Through the rightful passage of Time’s manners.

Photo by Héctor J. Rivas on Unsplash