“The Author”

Tis an interesting life, being a pen.

Over the years, I have felt many caresses.

I’ve brought smiles to naïve faces,

And broken different hearts.

I have cried inky tears, and bled ruby blood.

 

I have been old,

I have been meek.

I have been bold,

I have been weak.

 

A hidden message for a lover’s heart,

The anguish of a broken soul.

A list of names, soon complete,

Precious moments I’ve stole.

 

And yet, only one of these come to mind,

If pens have minds that is to say.

I remember, once, a hold,

A tender lamb, and yet so bold.

The penship, striking in its cryptic slashes.

Defining, insightful in its calligraphic dashes.

 

A passionate font that flitted with finesse,

Like static lightning, on a page.

A supple rose that bent and swayed,

And spoke of things aghast.

Of love and joy and happiness,

These things forbidden so yearned.

But more, of fear and shadow,

An unfrequented sorrow, eternally begotten.

But foremost of beauty. Such virtuosity!

The aesthetic heart untold.

 

Writing that snared mystery and intrigue.

Elusive yet lithe as it glowed with endeavour-

But stranger still, it would always sign,

“Willow
Wisp – Forever.”

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