With his plastic body, and metal tip,
an inky nib, and a rubber grip.
His various colours and different shapes,
with those scribblings, he painted a landscape.
He danced with the moon, in its light,
expressed feelings as deep as the darkest night.
He swayed to the melody of the soft breeze,
working his magic, with the slightest of ease.
He swiftly moved in the brightest sunshine,
writing and writing, line after line.
He revealed emotions, with the falling rain,
all we couldn't say, he wrote, bearing with the pain.
He danced to the tune, we writers played,
and endless memories, on pages he laid.
But alas, came a day, he wrote his final word,
indeed this pen, was mightier than the sword.
But just so easily, he was replaced,
and from this world, his memory erased.
He lived his life, in utmost excellence,
but did that lonely pen really make a difference?
YOU ARE READING
Felicity
PoetryWe live in a world of bliss, a bliss so divine, that it's so hard to find. Things in life are complex, and the life we choose becomes a reflection of who we are. Love is a beautiful flower, but its stem is loaded with thorns, ready to strike one d...
