With Contented Sigh
by Michael Doyle

No matter how much
Of this world, Atlas carries
On his tired old back
It's the writer's touch
That moves or buries
The feelings we too often lack

Turning it on, page after page
Conveying the feelings we want to say
Hinted at or said straight forward
It's the click of the clack of the sage
That touches our souls in our everyday
It somehow keeps us pushing toward

While the Devil oversees our due
Demanding his pound of flesh well worn
Until we've said all we are meant to say
Looking down on our words, meager in his view
Pressing onward, crawling since we were born
This is the methods take of a writer's day

As life comes and we try not to cringe
Bravely we face the world in bemusement
Wondering and wandering until finally we die
Moments felt like the longest sort of binge
As scene by scene, we play out our amusement
Until at last we leave this world with contented sigh

(c) December 17, 2021  Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved