Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap the keys sound
The writer brings his story to life
He writes a tale of passion
Of glory and strife

He pieces his tale together
The letters dancing in his head
He writes and writes and writes
‘Till his fingers feel like lead

He scans his completed saga
Admiring his master work
He reads it over and over again
Double checking every quirk

The work is printed and packaged
The author sends it away
Eagerly waiting to hear
If this would be his day

The publishers receive it
The editor is brought to tears
The story is the best she’s read
In over thirty years


The author is contacted
His narrative will be published
The writer is beside himself
His career can now be established

He arrives at the publishers excited beyond measure
The novel is reviewed, reworked, and reedited
His editors believe in him,
The writer will surely now become accredited

The tomes are shipped out everywhere
A story for all to read
The critics love it, the scholars are overwhelmed
It could be many a reader’s lifelong creed

The shelves are filled with the volumes of textual marvels
Their contents crying out to be received
The writer waiting to see, the troves of readers sure to be
Yet, it is not the books that are retrieved

The hordes of people pass by the shelves
Ignoring the masterpiece with its words so sublime
They prefer to stare at screens, filled with vapid, hollow, trash
While the story is lost in time.