A Poem: [Lo]st [Ve]il: The Pen Dies - 4/22/10

There lies a pen.
Dead, no ink left within.
It would seem someone had something to say
Yet a mouth is silent, while a soul is in disarray.

The pen lies still, as does the scribe
The room is chilled, as is the vibe
A cold hold is descending upon the wrist of the writer
While thoughts hit like the fist of a fighter.

Ink is normally the medium of expression
Yet now, his thoughts meet severe repression
They clamor at his skull, desperately wanting liberation
But all they receive is due consideration.

Each idea is brilliant, more than good enough to be written
But mum is the man whose mind is smitten
Every piece seems to be of a puzzle that represents her
Clouds of wonder cluster together; a storm will soon occur.

Thunderous roars seep from his deepest depths
Lightning-fast lines keep crossing his mind, right and left
Rain now is beginning to well up in his eyes
Oh how his heart speaks as he cries.

The pain and agony now leaks from his soul
He'd rather not weep, but he has no control
All of these emotions were pent up
It would be so much easier if he could pick his pen up.

But it is dead; a casualty of life
He strove to kill his feelings, his pen to be the knife
Poem after poem, ream after ream
He wrote and wrote, but did not say what it was to mean.

These poems were not fiery condemnations
They were filled with lively contemplations
Thoughts of if he was in love, and did she know
Queries on whether he'd tell her, and how it would go.

His feelings spanned enough pages to litter the floor
Yet after all he wrote, he still held more
Now unearthed, his true feelings beamed brightly
He began to understand why he thought of her nightly.

He was a victim of theft, reeling from the effects
Left to mull over what happened and ponder what's next
The pen still lies, a sign of collateral damage
All he can do now is await the return of the vanished.

-A. Lewis