I imagine a void
a dark or lighted place,
but with a voice
and without a face.

A trembling echo

heard cross the land,
it's the creator
of mountains and beach sand.

His (or Her) whole world
of land un-molested,
The voice grows aloud,
and rymes un-contested.

"A Challenge!" to seek,
of one simple rule,
to set quill to scroll,
a word battle duel.

Many have come to try,
and best the booming voice,
some tryed their hand,
after all it was there choice.

In the end the voice drew silent,
a sign of defeat,
but out in the twilight,
there was another voice so meek.

The small voice gathered strength,
with all it could muster,
and screamed out these words,
a poem shiney with luster.

The booming voice was impressed,
and soon did decree,
that the shiney little voice,
was one it would see.

So now in the void,
a voice has an echo,
the booming voice smiles,
and the tiny voice won't let go.






Penned by my hand on the 16th of Severin, in the year 127 MA.