A Harlequin's Romance

~*~
 

Just give it up, your run is dead,

your work is crap, the critics wrote.

Still, he typed on 'til digits bled,

biting back bile within his throat.

 

He died a little at a time—

every plot twist, revealing sin.

A well told tale, crafted so fine,

the weapons used, the words he'd spin.


~*~

Into the night, the typing went,

until his energies were drained,

trying to say just what he meant—

ignoring what his critics feigned...

 

Epic!, raved New York Times review,

The Boston Globe hyped it, saying–

The more his staunchest critics grew...

fans read on —they just kept paying.


~*~

The critics wrote, Just give it up!

There were still those he couldn't sway,

yet, fame's success, the cup he'd sup,

the pundits' games, he wouldn't play.

 

He died a very happy man—

doing what he so loved to do.

His work adored by mourning fans,

which, in his heart, he always knew.

~*~

Remember, when you read a book,

all the work it must have taken—

take more than just a casual look;

let the point not be mistaken.

 

Should you decide to take a chance,

while posturing a writer's pose,

avoid a harlequin's romance,

remaining faithful to your prose.


 

  ~~~~~~~~oO0†0Oo~~~~~~~~