The Writer

He sits there by his window,
looking out across the lands,
Trying to hold back his sorrow,
as he wrings his trembling hands,
Picking up his weathered pen,
slowly he begins to write,
Recalling the places that he's been,
and his wonderful stories of might,
The confines of this blessed chair,
has been his home since youth,
Magically travelling here and there,
fighting for justice and truth,
Now as old age closes in,
the words will no longer come,
So he lays the pen down again,
and the ink begins to run,
He realizes the end is near,
just like a weary prize fighter,
Yet he welcomes it without fear,
such was the life of The Writer.