The Binding (Noah, Divergent)

Here I come back to the place,

Where the darkest sight is a white page.
A space waiting to be filled with feelings.
To be filled with sorrow, to be filled with rage.

Such a wretched gift us poets have;
The gift to make beauty out of pain.
And when the marvel is done, beauty fades.
And only bitter memories remain.

Fool is he who thinks poets write for leisure.
It is a binding of infinite might.
The heart is bound to feel every word,
And the hand is forever bound to write.

So often would I look at my pen,
Gliding so softly over the pages.
"Cursed!" I'd think, for a poet's hand,
Is by far the darkest of cages.

"Mightier than a sword" they say.
Let the sword cower in shame,
For they both yield the power to wound,
Yet the pain is in no way the same.