That Pen

Trapped on a chair,

Staring at a square of nothing,

That pen you keep
Is the spark of madness,

The dust on your sideboard
An abstract plain where

The white takes to shapes
And the shapes turn to colours,

The quiet of night coalescing
In the back of your mind

As ideas run wet
And feed rivers –

How it works doesn’t matter
As much as the need that it must;

Voices and patterns,
Swaying and cooing,

Twisted stories and songs,
Fragile glory and hope,

A golden scatter unmined
As rhymes hook and bend,

Swathes of rich trickery
And hues shone electric,

An abundance all slathered,
Ripe and alive.

2 Responses to “That Pen”

  1. Thanks Nashki

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