Trepidity

The thoughts do stick,
Over the half burnt brick.
When will writing stop,
When will the hand drop.
In cages of enjoyment,
Sharing most of my bread.
Not knowing water source,
Yet breathing unafraid.
The pen and colourless paper,
The keys and glowing screen.
Will they last till eternity,
Without losing their sheen.
The nature is a worthy aid,
Wearing the brightest spread.
Flying freely till life does stop,
Hope writing isn't a big flop.