A Writer's Bane

Pens dance across oceans of white and black alike,
Elegantly, they spin and slide to the music they create,
Stories appear and another world is born,
A soul transferred, time lost and a heart, torn.

Slowly they rise as does the sanity of their creator decline,
A thousand lives lived through and a thousand eyes laid down to die,
A thousand tragedies, a thousand joys and still yet a thousand more,
The new land breathes a past that it cannot remember just yet.

A mirror shattered and all shall see through its shards, a piece of who they were,
A reachable kind of immortality that in our cruel world revolved around the concept of popularity,
An art reduced to a tasteless competition amongst manipulated trades of man-made currency,
Relive their lives, they implore you, so they not be forgotten but often, eyes that open do not see.

Stories, malformed and starved of passion are bound and presented,
Yet if they contain what the majority would enjoy, primitive instincts triumph over sophistication.
A kiss of warmth, to gaze into the fire beneath a light full of far away stars,
Yet everyone decides to bake themselves in a cave set alight with the entrance barred.

And so, a thousand lives that never live, die,
A new land breathes its last before it could flourish,
A war ends before it has begun,
A dance of ink and imagination done in vain.