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 into the stream.
A “like” arrives—a tiny star,
A comment glows from lands afar.

And then, the siren call begins—
A marketer with promised wins.
“Hire me,” they chant, “your books will rise,
We’ll fill your skies with reader eyes.”

Still, even with the pitch rehearsed,
It’s my hope quenches deepest thirst.
For late at night or early morn,
My gaze returns, both frayed and worn—

And there—a sale! My breath draws tight,
A prayer is cast into the night.
Oh fleeting flame, oh soaring scope,
This is the author’s daily hope.