The Wordsmith

Standing at the unmistakable precipice,
Surveying all that he had penned;
The inevitable was upon him;
A brilliant mind on which, he could no longer depend.

Prose, sonnets, ghosts stories,
And tales of magical lands;
All written upon this fine desk,
With a quill and ink in weathered hands.

At first it was just a simple word,
That would evade his truly gifted mind;
Then sentences, plots and chapters,
Would leave his story disorientated and blind.

Now he stares into the amnesiac abyss;
His words were all he had left.
Dimentia has deleted and rearranged his mind;
The darkness has left him bereft.

But his words will live on, committed to paper and book;
Even if he will not.
The wordsmith has told many a tale,
Never to be confused or forgot.