The pen leads my hand,
making letters to appear,
as if by magic,
Ink flows in the groove,
that the pen nib scribes and crafts,
and rests where it dries.
The pen won’t look back,
nor will it correct its flow,
for there’s no mistakes.
The page holds it still,
and capturing each letter,
and words as they form.
At last it does stop,
it pauses and with a sigh,
says, ‘Replace my top’.
The wonder of it,
this unstoppable passion,
that flares and burns out.
