The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold…
Has been on my mind, though I know not why
His cohorts are not gleaming, nor bright nor bold
The mind wanders through my plot as clouds through the sky.
Is Byron is calling me to write my tome?
Brimming with love, laughter and loss
Or is it something much closer to home
And bear it I must, my own personal cross?
The words flow like the ebb and tide,
The tome nears completion with the waning moon,
Letters are writ and then cast aside
As pebbles on a seabed are widely strewn.
The might of the pen is enduring and real
For once what was written cannot be rewrote
As strong as was weak Achilles’ heel
Or the knife held at Hector’s throat.
The tome is completed, the task has been done
The plot unravelled and the story spun.
At last, the Assyrian leaves the fold
And the words on the page glitter like gold.