Vanity of Words

Oh! What a foul play these words weave?

Ignorant and Unintelligible. 

Centuries of silence it holds within,

What a useless craft? To WRITE is. NOW. 

Leaves no mind touched. Whence,

Like a sail, it swam once.

The waves, THEN, build turmoils and created thunderstorms of thought. 

Rests at the port, drunk, the master must've lost his pen.

To move the fervor of seasons, intentions it required.

Conventions dropped. Eras refreshed. Revolutions picked new.

But oh! look the vanity of words produces no art. 

Degraded to survive by writing a page or a few.