The Master born before the purple pen,
The ink my blood and flowing through my veins.
My mind is Heaven, heart is passion-coursed.
My soul has merged with ancient writings forced
Into my eyes, brought forth from aching pain,
And carried out by will, now and again.
Defeated spirits sigh at sight of words
I’ve written. Fingers are ink-covered, black
Over the brown and red upon the tips.
Imagination races, vivid sips
Of bountiful lakes holding words the others lack;
The freedom flies, created lives occurred.
No other conquers ink like I, nor ever
Will they, no matter how hard they endeavor.