The words that flow from my ink,
Canít be contained by chain link.
Words rolling into sentences,
Which wonít be held back by iron fences.
Always forming stories but not always using pens,
Discovered way back in caveman dens.
Words overtime never grow weak,
Way back to Roman Greek.
Words have never been a foe,
To the mastery of Edgar Allan Poe.
From the rhythmic beat of poetry,
That same beat found in a wonderful story.