Typewriter

In a small town, far away from the bright city skies, stands an old, redbrick house.

It has two floors and on the second shines a glow, a glow of yellow, which disturbs the night.

And behind this window and it's frozen glass a writer reads, by the dimm light.

He wades trough pages, those which smell of old, he even thinks, that there's a story to unfold.

He reads neither the letters nor the words,  he reads it as a whole.

Like he was present, at this very moment, in the world some made by ink.

It's hard to find sense and the man is confused, until the last word, the end of old papers use.

He lets them fall onto the ground, making the unhearable bashing sound.

A sudden clarity, an idea is born and the writer can now fullfil, what he had sworn.

Then his typewriter starts to tap while he smokes his pipe, making a puff.

Word by word and not so slowly, he's creating, a brand new journey.

To whome the writer his writing writes?

To you my fellow readers, hopefully straight to your hearts.