Why do We Write?

Sharing stories has long in time been a service to the art in mind. One of mine and two of thine. Can’t you see the sun is arise. I have to meet somewhat larger than feat a troublesome friend indeed. Can’t you hear the calls are mere but a roar in heed. Heathens sake. Are you even awake? Or is this but a dream in quarantines shake.

One reads and dreams and shakes and comes back where the field is but ready to retell. If one hasn’t yet read and they would like for you to tell. Oh my. Someone is cooking dessert. I remember.

School was but a feast. My books in hand and stories from tongue. Game at last and begin your task. I would and could nay should but only would. The woodpecker sighs. Finally. The bell chimes.

There is but space and time for mine.