Will, more than ample to move your miraculous pen forward,

versing out divine lines like lightning striking, always

looking ahead to the vast blank space you’ll fill in

far beyond what’s flowing through you to the nib right now,

the black in running like a raging river, as rapid as can be humanly possible,

given the earthly physical limitation of our hands to fly,

hardly swift enough to catch the lightning flow of your imagination,

rounding all roles so well as to make your stage such a magical world

and every player in it speaking proof of flesh and blood as you have envisioned,

the concrete courage of your words penned in genuine speech, always perfect,

and who’d know it, seeing just Will, simply sitting in some pub, scratching away,

situated under that best-lit window on your golden world,

how you make more than anyone the most of an offering hour,

inscribing with celestial power everything in this world and more

that all sums up mightily to crown you

the most famous writer in the history of literature.

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