This pen, condemned to write long hand
twixt static lines immutable.
I dream in screams, enslaved demand,
until no whim’s refutable.
I drift between the penny thoughts that eons’ scars have tarnished green.
I search for lasting reverence to bath the mind in dreams unseen.
Then one, by one, the pen strokes lay
their theoried marks across the page.
Yet I, denied the truth they play
o’er temporal poles of peace and rage.
I watch the sloppy arcs of ink strive to drive a purposed thought.
I hear the rhythmed scratching nib stroke the paper’s lust here sought.
My hand, demands some false control
that I may feel these arcs are mine.
Yet so, I know it guides my soul,
entreating purpose form this blind.
That I behind this pen in shadow steal a glimpse of ink and prose,
conjured form this poet’s ether, released afield by arcs it throws.