There he is, a deep thinker,
Sunk into life's ocean by thoughtful sinker
And with a roaming heart,
Traversing into the core of nature and art.
A curiously inquisitive bird,
Fluttering into life's tracts even when abed;
Prying into life's worries and gay
Where pleasure and pains sided by side lay.
He rambles into placid and turbulent spikes
This, his heart placates or strikes
As his pen dares to tell
The untold stories of men before they fell.
A soul in boundless thoughts
Pleasant or horrible thoughts
All of equal measures and height
Conjuring him to but write.
Unresting, unstable like a busy bee
His heart questioning the unseeming be;
Seeking that which ought to be
Which without writing cannot his heart free.
While he yet eulogizes a hero,
A vilainous thought appears with horror
And while listening to melodies of nature
Melancholy appears there like a vulture.
While he yet the past tries to write,
Either in ecstasy or fright,
The present there glares and knocks to be written
And none could beneath the feet be trodden.
The cry of an orphant pricks his soul,
And this he seeks to write in ink and scroll
Oh, what a wandering soulful state,
That seeks all to write on a slate!
A writer's soul,
Is a weary and wandering soul,
That constantly seeks to write
And writing all that comes to sight!
Scripted By: Purity Onyam