Languishing, lovingly,
serendipitous supple strokes
of ink on parchment.
Language filling the page.
Worlds waiting to be formed.
Living microcosms of my mind.
I work to write...toil alone,
but alone no more.
Surrounded by sweet sounds
of voice like mine
whose thurst for language
is a ringing in their ears
that won't stop until
the written word is complete.
Peers, fellow sojourners
in the community of writers.
Feeling our way blindly
through this thing,
this existence we call WRITER.
We strive, now together,
to define our own worlds...
together, not solitary,
voices striving to be heard
above the whir of life.
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