The poetry of pen and paper

The spill is a splitting joy
Of ink and dotted lines
That held more than rhymes
But the beauty of words

Each stroke wielded strength
Unsheathed upon a sheet
That this two shall meet
Becoming one wonder

It was Shakespeare
It was old banter
The type to manoeuvre time
It was fire for the right minds

The type to span passion
A grip on yesterday
A midwife for birthing bards
Who can touch, feel poetry.

Vera