The Writer's Folly

A Writer’s Folly

It doesn’t matter how much I write,

If all that people do is turn from my sight.

Where words and sentences and paragraphs abound,

But for those it was intended for don’t make a sound.

The readings I type, hours upon hours,

If less than what is expected, their interest sours.

But I continue to pen each thought in word form,

Even if there isn’t any thunder, no approaching storm.

It’s sad that years have now gone by,

And no one who reads my work or even says hi.

Yet, onward I’ll march regards of the interest,

Into my worlds of aliens, dogs, and princesses.

For me, it’s not about who they might be,

It’s more important that it’s the color they see.

Shades of gray, washes of red, splashed upon a page,

That is what the game is about until the day I pass away.

So be gone with you those who would offend,

For I’ll write seriousness or perhaps folly until my end.

And in my waning years when sight is disappearing,

My pen never the blind one will continue orchestrating.