The Poet's Pen

Dreams and memories falling over themselves
as if from some dusty, long forgotten shelves.
Carefully, I brush my fingers over the page.
It's yellowed, fragile, with the lingering musk of age.
Ink, in flowery, flowing, gossamer script
Silently spells out a tale most sweet yet sad,
Blotches upon some pages linger still,
As though the from the author's eyes did spill.
Whilst telling the story in mis-matched rhyme,
A story of two lovers whose hearts are still entwined,
In my mind I picture the writer,
Was he a lover, or a fighter?
Was he a sinner, was he a saint,
From battle did his heart grow faint?
Was he a beggar, was he a thief,
Did he write with joy, or instead, with grief?
Turning over the papers, handling with care,
The name of the author must be there.
Breath catches in my lungs,
I stare at the name I've found, stunned.
He wasn't a beggar, he wasn't a thief
Neither a saint nor a sinner was he.
His words written in ink as dark as the nyght,,
Stained with the sweat of his passion for life,
A Nyght who lived, loved, and did both well,
His words still on the page, his story to tell.