If I had a quill made of gold
that wrote of stories, new and old
create new dreams and fairytales
on pages carried by silver sails
sketch bright flowers with bumblebees
or babbling brooks with autumn leaves
write of sorrow pain and grief
or paint a mural, of love and peace
and if that quill made magic real
wrote songs to sing, that make you feel
would you take that quill, for your own
or leave it here, its rightful home
I do have a quill that’s made of gold
It cannot be taken, borrowed, or sold
I was born with this quill, it’s part of me
it’s who I am—my legacy







