Fingers stained Perle’ Noire
With hints of Eclat De Saphir
Evidence of a writer’s passion
On the hands that make words appear
Upon warped pages of traveled diaries
Now in its beat up better days
Full of the notes of multiple stories
In a lone man’s mind space
There exists the seeds of a song,
A book, a plan, a revolution
Waiting for its coming ascendance
As it matures to fruition
Welcome dear child of thought and time
In embrace or rejection be brave
Believe the roots of another’s hope
Will grow beyond your grave
The Thought Leader
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