The Novelist Poem by James Papastamos

So handsome in his fresh attire
once dressed, occasion followed rage;
A quill at hand, its feathers rose
to wipe those tears that stained his page

Compose? He could not answer why
no stories wandered from his mind;
Except a name to dot his I's
and cross the T's he'd left behind

Romantic thoughts to bind each word
now danced about his yearning soul;
A lonely man, he wrote of love
our fears must always pay such toll