The ancient scribes before me wrote first of you,
of those who guide the pen to paper
and voice to song.
They wrote of your names and deeds,
extolling the virtues of your creative grace.
I am nothing like them.
I am a digital scribe, a lost child
in a world overfilled with meaningless words
and forgotten stories.
My tongue won’t wrap around your stories
like vines around a tree,
because my spirit hasn’t walked with yours
and embraced the beauty of your inspiration.
I am limited, but I am open.
Listen to the words of my spirit
as I attempt to reach across the ages
and find divinity.
I may not know your names,
your powers or your praises,
but I know the way it feels when the creative juices flow
and fingers dance across keys
and everything distills down to me
and the story
and the words
as they burst into being.
Writing is the magic of the gods,
given to humankind like a torch in the night.
For that light,
I am grateful.