He sat there alone on the floor

Outside the Workshop, barefoot,

In his flowing robes of gold!

Quill in hand deftly scribbling His findings –

His observations on life.  

Yet I was petrified of him!

Daily I had to enter there –

Through that door behind him

Yet still he scribbled!

The sight of his long unkempt hair

Flowing in the breeze, his gnarled

Knuckles with long spindly fingers

Turning each word-filled page

The Sands Of Time before him slowly

Oh! So slowly cascading downwards

To accompany his every word!

“Don’t” I’d pray, “Please don’t look

Upon me and then

Include me in your findings.

Let me be free and not trapped upon

Your page – free to step from your