Ode to a Writer

Ode to a writer
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That my heart did ache when I read the chap was sooth,
and when I had concluded, my mind did yearn for that
which it oft does at the termination of such uncouth 
Literature that delights my wit and draws me back.
Charming words dance like lights 'round me,
And nary a detail escapes such discerning eyes.
Bring forth the fables, the stories, the tales! 
Bring me the parable in all its glory! 
Wrap up an epic in poetic disguise,
But save thou the novel, against which all pales. 

To possess but a novel can prove truly plain.
Praise ye the novelist who doth tarry long and hard
To erect a script that sparks the imagination and entertains.
Praise ye her toil, and sweat, and fingers marred,
For no fruit cometh from a seed unplanted,
And to praise is to water the earthbound seed.
No longer will that seed be trapped 'neath the terra. 
To withhold life-nectar is a chapter recanted.
A chapter recanted is a week of misery and need,
And seven short days seem like an era.

Here in this world the writer has borne of her own,
Here in this universe built to escape reality,
Here one may dwell with the peace of the tome 
And fight with the strife of the imaginary
Ode to the writer, the god of the make-believe,
Who laughs with her pen and smites with her coal.
Ode to the writer who rewards and abuses
Both character and reader, and dares reprieve 
Her villain, who doth buckle under her control.
O! Praise ye the miracle writer, though, Liv, your miracle confuses.