Heaven is a lyric in a writer's mind
Written lopsidedly on a wrinkling page
It loops and flows through the lines
Like a wandering butterfly through a maze

It sets itself upon the throne
Of limerick, prose and poetry
And spins a web of pretty words
Carving out a breath-taking imagery

It throws open doorways and exits
And playfully whistles through each
Dragging behind a gaggle of readers
That dart gleefully beyond reality's reach

It sweeps through valleys and soars high
Towards a plethora of worlds unknown
It conjures enchanted woods and lands
Out of the seeds of ideas sown

A bumbling fool is he who turns
And walks a path away from these riches
Who ignores the beauty and forgets the knights
And pays no heed to hags nor witches

Who turns a blind eye and a deaf ear
To the unravelling path that he sees
And returns to a world which has no magic
Or whispers of wind through the trees

But he who listens and follows their tune
Is grudgingly granted entrance and sight
Into a land of miracles and bravery abound
A land of mischief, magic and might

Heaven is the quill in a writer's hand
And he twirls it endlessly, round and round
It is the key to the doorway of dreams
A land of lore, not easily found

He lays sleepless in the nights
Dreaming listlessly and yet so awake
Crafting a charming, perfect distraction
From a cruel world full of heartbreak

And as midnight caresses his soul
His quill is at last, finally put to rest
Closing the doors of the faraway worlds
That house all creations at his behest

Heaven is the escape of a writer's mind
His soul salvaged in a kinder world
A distant dream of unquestioned belonging
A solemn way to make his voice heard

And so he rests, immortal to his soul
Within the pages that come undone
Eternally content and forever living
In the realms of the tale he's spun.

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