Life as a writer,
Sometimes are a mystery,
Less people ask,
But they would know when,
When there will actually be,
Unwritten in a melody that was still,
Left unbroken.
Life as a writer,
Sometimes are less velocity,
Less questions dribbled,
But they can still figure how,
How this life can actually lie,
In steps that can never simply be,
Forgotten.
Life as a writer,
Sometimes are devoting faith,
More indignity with less consciousness,
With thoughts most likely floating,
Floating in their river of life,
How can others still comply to understand,
In a way that neither can be seen,
Visible.
(c) Scarlet Storm 2015
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