Alone with a Pen
I glided the ballpoint pen across the gridded page,
And saw letters form into words into sentences into paragraphs.
The blue ink covered the page and bled through several others.
The story at its peak, at the summit, just before the great fall
When the gravity takes over.
Soaring with wings of an eagle,
Or falling straight as a flat stone into black water.
The sunlight came through the marred glass,
Illuminating the vast, wooden table, where I am seated.
Yearns for people to gather.
The right company is never here,
Headed for opposite directions,
same sides of a magnet.
Drifting from the shore,
The wealthy man sacrifices love for riches.
The words never came to came to me,
Until I thought alone.
Alone, for hours, no more hiding in the back.
No more lashing from the shepherd, night has come,
And only the wild beasts roam, much less in compare.
I know the end is near, but the story is never done.
