The scribe scribbled on, long into the night.
His pencil dulled as did the candle light.
He shivered with cold and his fingers ached,
But he had a mission, and it could not wait.
Life was his subject and this he knew well,
Now he had its story and wished it to tell.
His own had been lived to its utmost extent,
Now his mind was full with plenty content.
He started at the beginning then drifted a mite,
He had re-edited, and now the storyline was right.
He sat back and gazed at what he had wrote.
He felt a tear rise and almost choked.
He had started off intending to write a happy tale,
But he had dwelt on too many occasions when all was not well.
With a sad heavy heart he did rise,
Closing the cover to his treasured prize.
In the morning he rose and his book was not there.
He searched in a mood of despondency and fear.
Then he saw that things had changed,
Furniture had been moved and rearranged.
Where some sort of order existed before,
Now cobwebs and dust-covered all but the door.
The door it seemed, had been used many times,
The reason was in the corner, where sat many more scribes.
He started to speak but they were all deaf,
He was saddened, disillusioned and bereft.
It was then that the notion entered his head,
His sanity was saved, he was simply dead.