The Author’s Hope by Keith Landry
Each dawn begins with silent creed—
I check the board, I plant the seed.
That pixel shrine of gain or loss,
Where every number bears a cost.
Today, again, no surge, no spark,
The screen is still, the mood is dark.
But whispers stir within my chest:
“Hold fast, tomorrow may be blessed.”
For in an author’s beating vein,
Flows grit that rises after pain.
Disappointment fades like mist,
And effort clenches tighter fist.
I forge new ads, bold banners gleam,
I stitch new dreams...