Scribbler,
The dream in your mind
fills the shelf.
When upon the shelf you gaze
vacuum stares at you.
There is your quill and parchment,
but heavy are your hands
Why?
Because disuse numbs the wrist.
Between dreams and fruition
yawning gaps close,
not by pacing carpets;
by mating quill and parchment.
Tell you the truth:
the gold adorning the neck
once was lost in rocky roils.
They dig deep who find it!
Here is your quill.
Here are the sheets.
When will this dream in your mind
fill the shelf,
Scribbler?