He toils silent, ever still
over his ponderous prose
To air, to wit,
to blossom there
Like the budding rose...

Cerebral blooms
which from the light,
into the vastness long
To shine upon the
seedlings there,
before all hope is gone

Oh, song of heart
with trembling hands,
you pluck the flowers fair
'tis he who pens with
orchid stems
my soul doth render bare.