Could there ever possibly be,
A better type of hobby
Than to sit writing
All the things our hearts are describing?
Scene after scene written
Oh, it has me smitten,
The way words come together
To convey, what can be better?
Visions of trees, and of hills,
Depictions of rivers and of stills,
Dew upon the flowers, moon in the sky,
Isn’t writing a gift on high?
Words, so timeless,
Formed to its sublimest,
Page for page,
How I am engaged!
I write of leaves falling to the ground,
Grey skies with snow all around,
Ships, which sail only in the sky,
And I write these as my spirits fly.
I write of many things,
If I don’t, my heart stings,
Writing is so magical;
Ever lovely and lyrical.
The depths of my heart are conveyed,
You can read what’s never been said,
I’ve spent a day or two or three,
Writing in such jubilee.
My heart craves it,
Others brave it,
Who could abhor it?
I simply adore it!
Writing sets me free.