They stand just out of view, waiting,
watching for you to digress from what
they've said is the tried and true.
Their vocal tsk tsk prick your neck
with agitation, you reach behind
swiping, hoping to fling this aggravation
against the wall. Eyes watch.
You've poured your heart and soul
into the task at hand,
reaching out to those common.
Your blood curdled with this resolve.
Blindly, unwilling to yield to change;
they've pegged you as an outcast, a traitor.
One who will not be molded by their
potters table of preconceived ideas.
Forging paths for those to come,
your sweat and blood leads the way.
We see the etchings of your pen,
the splatters of ink and flung quills.
You've brought hope to those who thirst
to just write and be understood.
Your sacrifices of fame and glory do
not go unnoticed. Our voices sound out
your hopes; we who ape your way.
We who are led by the pen and not
just by the educated, whose hearts
and lack of fellow feeling
serve only their own notions.
Yet more than ever, even now,
"Yesterday's shadows still cast their curtain..."