The Pen

‘All curses on this pen,’

I see you think,

This dark intruder that demands

Its pint of ink;

It leaves harsh trails and seeks to

Imitate the past,

Though never moves,

But leads the eye toward the glass.

 

For as the trail goes out

From birth to death,

A black unbroken scrawl

To steal the breath,

It steals the art

Of conversation’s better side

While you look on

Like some poor, jilted bride,

Who has the well

(If I but had the ink),

And dips me well

When I do cease to think.

 

David Lewis Paget

 

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Hmmm ... this one speaks to me personally. Suffice it to say, a man once loved me and my poetry; but once he had me, he became jealous of the one thing that he once loved me for. While he sought to crush my pen, he crushed his own heart instead.

You on the other hand recognize the true source of ink.

Linda Marie Van Tassell