The Old Writer

I flex and splay,
fingers danced at my command.
Words and ideas fly in perfect synchronicity.
Phrases flit, and are born
with grace.

A gentle bend of the neck to side,
then round, and up!
The text flies, swerves and dives.
Master cartographer of this land.
Senses of control,
and destiny.

If I could live my life again,
I would do it later.
My pointless and sad youth has been such an asset
that I wish I had extended it.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.