Once, an old man sat with a pen in his hand,
The Montblanc scribbled words with its bejeweled band.
Verses he sought, hidden in Twilight's soft glow,
Learning fresh rhythms, letting ancient notions go.
Feeble lines of a poem danced in his mind,
In the quiet, for meaning, he aimed to find.
His fingers trembled, yet still, the old pen danced,
In the realm of poetry, he earnestly advanced.
With every short word, he felt his soul take flight,
In Twilight's embrace, he found poetic might.
Hendecasyllabic words, what a delight.
Written for "The Writer's Cramp celebrates WDC 24!" New Prompt: "The Hendecasyllabic" is the form that we are going to use today—one stanza, 11 syllables per line - and in this case, 11 lines in length. 155 words. The topic is free to choose. Entries must be no longer than 11 lines of poetry. Your line count MUST appear in your entry post in the Cramp forum.
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