A slender thing, five inches long,
lying silent, lying still, mocking me in idle stay,
A useless specter, it waits in silence,
reminding me of what I might not do.
Yet in my grasp, it sparks awake,
spilling joy, exhilaration, ecstasy even, and life.
to lift me high,
to make me feel
weightless, invincible.
But just as suddenly,
it turns—
a storm unraveling,
leaving behind wreckage, shadow,
emptiness.
A fickle blade, it holds within its fragile body
the power to carve rapture, birth light.
It whispers shape, it strokes betrayal—
This pen, my curse, my saving grace.