By Dan Bickert

Pen grasped in hand
Gleaming from the teeming mind of a word smith
From nights aside a candle do much notions sire
Full of thoughts apprended from rich garners of high piled books beheld
Now scrawling his own book authored by the fateful hand of providence
At which hour he feels to be the creature of the hour
Meanwhile, continuing to write
Lamenting that in some day to come
Never shall his eyes behold upon his creation more
And relish in her faerie powers of incantation
In this tenatent world some stand alone
While others tower above
It is over, times at which hour he was chuffed
With what he wrote
Though he was not so big as he is now
When he held his pen in hand
Even though, at that time
It was nothing but a twig
And with it spreading before el olvido
What had penned his desire
When his name was known only to his comrades and acquaintance
Outside the evening's mooned face, enamourous sheens
Time spent in his study, sheltered
Enraptured by an illumed milieu full of night's returned incantations
How many evenings shall he live below its recapitulations?
The evolution of ceasing to be
Lingering, fading ivory vapors of a cebub cerecloth the vista of sand
Gradually passing through the hour glass of time
How biting it is to envisage evanescent eminence
And to confront how ultimately to nothingness we do dwindle
Save what one has left behind of one's own 'être' in this temporal

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