The will to write a poem striks in an instant like a flash of lightening outside my window.  One can not just sit down and write poetry for without that light a poem is nothing more than nevermore the cry of a poem tortured. Please enjoy my hastily writen poem!

Shadows of light; Slivers of darkness

Light and dark forever twighned

Such is this of wich I write

Stories and tales; Shadows and stones

Heros and villians; good and evil

Of such is what we write

And yet it seams the soul laid bare

Doth hether come wince we call

trembling with fear or pride; a character is born

From shadows of light or slivers of darkness

A hero or villian springs forth from our mind

fully formed and clothed to suit

but alas this often fails

and they spring half formed on to the page

clothed in the castoffs of a thousand

We try to nurse them

but sometimes they don't survive

and who but a writer knows this?

The pain and sorrow of a characture lost

The eventual death of a character fully formed

but the joy of the leap lives on

On our pages; burned into our memories

an ode for those fallen

an ode for those we have killed

writen in their deaths, with our own hand

the sorrow, the hard sorrow

the passing past it seams to most

but a true writer knows

the joy of the leap

and the sorrow of a charater lost

We deal with the fates of many

and hold the stings in our hand

and yet sometimes

A character is born or dies by his own will

sometimes they refuse

sometimes they refute our words and change our stories for the better

So here's to them

the characters of a writer

those just born and those long dead