I heard the whoosh...
I saw the wick on the taper flicker,
I felt a chill in the air,
just as the quill began dancing across
the slightly yellowed linen paper
milled using water and rags.
Suddenly, a ghostly figure evolved
hunched over my deeply scarred
writing table with the bib of the
quill dipped in the jet black ink well.
With a flourish of motion,
the quill seemed to float buoyantly
along the less than smooth surface
of paper scratching a cursive line
of a script that read, "write -- write --
write,"
The ghost of times past appeared to
look over its lowered shoulder,
toward me, gazing ever so intently,
and continued to scrawl
as these words appeared,
"words tell the story,
my story...must be told,
be bold, take up my quill,
before you grow too old,
you must tell my story!
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