…the poet, the novelist or those who love to read,

where are the stories bold at last, have they all been freed,

to miss the talent of truth in magic, by words at center stage,

left behind forgotten quick but the world they did engage.

Ideas from minds penned so suave, like nothing ever heard,

chapter’s end or stanzas touch leaving beats so stirred,

beneath our feet the writers sleep, a gift now dark and still,

romance and mystery, a longing for mystic tales to thrill.

The plot to thicken, death to soon or murder left to…

By The Humble Poet