They thought, they muttered,
In hushed tones uttered:
What does he pen down?
Why does he behold
The path neurotic
By being besotted
With literary
Soliloquy?
Perhaps ‘tis madness
Demented sadness
Or that he treasures
Unwholesome pleasures
Doubtless, ‘tis evil
That guides his quill
In clandestine
Calligraphy
Misunderstood, the writer yet
His ink to dry, proceeds to wet
His pad, wording a manuscript
Too convoluted to decrypt
His features brood a secret smile
“You’ll see”, he says, “but in a while,”
Then, frowning now, resumes to coax
His thoughts and scrawl those cryptic strokes…
« return.