The author that never was.

It's my frist poem in awhile so it's sort of like me streching my writting muscle.

Three dots on the page are all that remain
of an author so great.
He could weave words off the page.
they would float through the room,
guided by soft warm air.
Those words would then travel
through-out your body making you tingle and shiver,
embedding themselves in your mind
for all of time, causing you to
forever remember the great author that was.