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Ode to a Bleeding Pen
in the cold dank space
of a rundown, long-abandoned basement room,
she sat surrounded by the echoes of previous lives,
yet so very
alone.
head down
shoulders sagging
drained eyes
sad, wispy sighs.
carefully lifted the timeworn pen:
pockmarked with use, a living antique,
weighty like a confession in her hand.
blackened ink sinks,
coursing through the timelines that have defined her life
on yellowed paper
with threadbare edges that have seen better days.
she walks discreetly, clasping the folded remnants of long lost pain
gently presses the paper to her lips,
in silent prayer
as
it carries the outpourings from her heart
across
the contorted corridors
of a shredded past
a drop of ink on paper
(a haunting mistake from yesteryear)
hesitates
then smudges the paper
overwhelmed by rivulets of pain,
slicing through ancient bedrock
the droplet stains, succumbing to lost memories,
buried in waves of nostalgia.
streaming ink as dripping blood from an open wound
each letter a note from the soul
painstakingly written
tracing in forensic detail long-forgotten twists and
turns, now mere remnants
reflecting your inner tears
fathomless depths of your torn soul
subdued by countless words
imbibed with layered meanings
an emotional shipwreck
buried deep beneath a sonnet of grief
then
warmed by
glowing coals,
next
a spark from the hewn hearth
reignites the slow burn fire
flames fanned by the winds of change
vestiges of hope warm your heart,
lighten your load.
the vintage pen honors
your word
your voice
your world
casting ancient shapes no
silence can redeem
pearls of wisdom lie dormant for aeons
hidden in womblike darkness
the brave spirit of
the survivor, nay, thriver emerges,
a treasure trove of inspiration
the venerable pen speaks only the truth it finds
weaving words into poems,
vividly portraying pain to passion
on a journey underlined by the
bleeding ink of pen
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