They looked to the horizon,

the writers,

to see nothing but deadlines,

and deadlines,

and the deadlines came for them,

in a rush,

with no remorse,

a siege of sentences,

a grammar grapple,

They stood tall,

The valiant few,

The picked up their pens,

And quills,

Typewriters too,

They armored themselves,

With books,

And printing presses,

They wrote and wrote,

fought against them,

but to no avail,

They fought with words,

Prose and poetry,

Verse after verse,

line after line,

But it mattered not;

The valiant few had fallen.

And with ink stained hands,

one rose again to face them

Gasping and hand aching,

The pen falling falls from his hand.

Only for him to look out

And to see another,

round of them coming

and the deadlines came

for him too.