The Journal

A book on lonely table lay
The pages open wide
A quill within the Writer's hand
An inkwell guards the side

Careful tracing letter forms
Communicates on page
As the Writer gently pens
The lessons learned of age

A page is filled and dried and turned
The ink now witness bears
A message made for future times
And for the Writer's heirs

Here, now penned, a tale of joy
The Writer loves to tell
There, a story whose ink is smeared
Where Writer's tears had fell

While part of life had rushed on by
In quite the pleasant flow
The Writer punctuates in time
When sorrow crept by slow

The sighs and smiles in black and white
Upon the pages lay
Which without effort captivate
The colorful display

With aged hand and gentle strokes
The Writer maps his life
Could he but put the words to tune
With fiddle and with fife

When he had done, he read his work
That no mem'ry was lost
The Writer finalized his tome
Then drew a simple cross

And in the margins of the page
He left his heirs a prayer
"Make your way to Heaven's Gate;
For I'll be waiting there."