The Writer

The Writer
by Rob Delisa

Oh, how he loved to write them off. Who needs friends? He'd laugh and scoff. The writer took his pen and shed their plight. With fate in hand there was so much to write.

Wielding a pen of many swords, He'd cut their hearts with the sharpest of words A tale here, a tattle there, maybe a stretch, but never a lie. Leaving out what was truth's reply.

With his weapon aimed high, he reached for glory. Cutting his words just right to make a story. When he put down his weapon he was left to imagine. Was there anything left of anyone's sin?

As his stories grew old and days turned to night. His weapon felt heavy, and his pen, too light. His words cast the shadow of a stranger's disguise. Not of the same one they came to realize.

The writer took off his mask and put down his weapon. He shrugged off his past and took up a new one. Choosing nice over naughty and happy over sad. He softened his words to make them glad.

Wielding a new pen of musical phrase. He'd lift their hearts by singing their praise. A jingle here, a jangle there, maybe a chorus, but never off key. Leaving out what was falsehood's decree.

With his voice held high, he aimed for fame. Rounding his words to reclaim his name. When the music stopped he was left to wonder. Is there anything left of anyone's splendor?

As the music grew old, the writer lost his rhythm His voice grew hoarse and the pen, too numb. His words rang hollow of his own refrain. Not of the same they came to disdain.

The writer learned they all thought he lied. There was no one there to stand by his side. When he wiped off his tears, he let out a cough. He had no friends, he wrote them off.