Novel Rivers of ink cascading by, The high mountains and hills of scripture. Low valleys of fresh paper, dry, Fold into this serene picture. By pen sculpted, intricate, precariously, The writer's world is sharply crafted, A lone stream of ink flows past vigorously, Oblivious to the spring from which it was drafted. Fields of letters, trees of words, This fragile, literary land, With it's written wolves, and it's written herds, Created by a singular hand. Who knew such beauty could be found in writing? Novels really are strange. Perhaps it is of mine just a phase, But it really is rather delighting.
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