When The Pen Becomes Weak

image of a pen
Image source: google.com

The pen is cloaked in vigour,
And elegance exudes as it bleeds.
It uncovers dark dark secrets buried
Deep within the hearts of men.
It wields the mind of its wielder,
And the tales of SUMMER and WINTER
SPRING forth and FALL from its nib.
It tells the tale of a girl so young
Who was yanked from her beloved folks.
Woven into the rags she wears
Is an unending feeling of woe.
The scent of blood is musk,
And the festive periods are near.
Drops of tears are sipped as wine,
And the remains of butchered country
Men are laid down like sacrificial lambs.
Long years of war have made her forget:
The moans of water caressing the
Golden sands of the beach; at dawn,
The harsh voice of troubled roosters;
The tender tune of a mother's lullaby;
The giggles of wine cups that clatter
And clang when men adorn themselves
In robes of hysteric bliss.

When the pen becomes weak and amiss
It ceases to explore its wielder's thoughts;
It dances not in panoply divine,
And tales of white, green, red and black
Are forever missing
In the blank pages of history.
And for the girl who lost her folks,
Hope becomes another casualty
Of a war without a likely end.
Her heart will beat in chaos forevermore;
Her eyes will say a thousand words
Alas! We won't see beyond her pretty face.

Honestly, it's been long since I last wrote a poem. And I wouldn't know whether or not I still have it in my blood. As such, I would really appreciate your comments here. Thank you!

Also, read The Mind of  a Poet


  1. "When the pen becomes weak and amiss
    It ceases to explore its wielder's thoughts.."

    Apt...More ink to your pen sire.


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