Or demons in Hell
Are more frustrating
Or more deceitful
Than the misfortune of trusting
The dull blades of dead pens.
The muse's words are lost to the ether
While my pen scrapes the paper.
In futility.
After years of silent wishing
While undeservedly stopping
In art shops and travel stops
Briefly allowing my eyes to settle
Like dust in a mausoleum
Onto the quills and inks
And parchment and fountain pens
To use and make my words beautiful.
No comments:
Post a Comment