Talent Blooming Late

And far out, a talent was blooming late
One that would become a force to reckon

He had kept searching a meaning to life
Kept saying to others, but forgot to listen
That this purpose forever had lay within

Something that I would do for free
Is writing, but yes, oh why indeed
And missing am I, in lack of this deed
Did my son just reveal, the secret is this

A passion to write, be it verse or word
Is God-given, and language, only a medium
True joy lies not, in hours of sleep
It lies in joy felt, at the hour of sleep