Dying words

I wrote this in a sense of a dying writer, i would love to hear what everyone could add

The black ink comfortably dries on the parchment
A workers hand skillfully marks every curve and every line
He trespasses gates of uncharted knowledge
He steps into a land that has no footprints
No day has become dark and gray to his skin
His wrinkles prove his intelligence through his many years
No matter which corner of the earth he encounters
He has a rendezvous with the words of his soul

Years pass much like sand through cracks in the ground
His cognition of human psyche baffles scientists
He finds consequential importance without a pretentious hair on his head
His use of adroitness words covers insecurity within human realms
This writer creates an indisputable mockery of violence
He extirpates enemies without expelling bullets

Much like blood, words flow through his veins
Whenever a wound is unimpeded, words flow with ease
Pain is the canvas in which his quondam soul pours