Invisible Writer

The rythmic ticking of the grandfather clock consumes the room,
The whispering scribbles of his pen are heard no more.
Everything is in its place,
The way it has been since its existence.
Cold and silent winds creep their way around the floor,
Though he's used to it by now.

The man puts all his effort and blood into forming the last few pages,
But that cursed realization always comes to his mind.
The knowledge that once he finishes his tale,
No one will notice.
His friends abandon him,
And his loved ones never appreciate his gift.

The story of love and mystery is now complete,
His work is finished, but will they even care?
He holds the notebook loosely in his hands,
Tears fall and splatter against the engravings.
He strikes a match, and places the flame under the book,
Hoping that this time it will follow its fate.

Unharmed and unburned, the book is placed on the table,
No matter how many times, it still eluded its death.
He walks to the window and stares at its depths,
The autumn morning was sure to be full of surprises.
But those surprises were nothing new to him,
Nothing changed over the years, and it never will.

For you see, no matter how hard he tries to destroy his tale,
The magic it contains never dies.
Though no one will truely appreciate his work,
There is but his heart that tells him the truth.
He is plain as day when he looks in the mirror,
Though he is invisible, to any who do not see it.