She Who'll Wields Her Pen

To write is the product of the unwellness
From all the deep unwell
Wrote her and so does she
Veil down the unwellness of such melancholy 

To prosper on the words in the paper
Was ever her safe haven and breather
Taut shall she, for she has the prowess
Of sensual articulacy

And as if a facet was obliterated
Invigorating pens and inks to be sad
Thwarting her from doing so
Upon onesel'ves imposition. She'd gone mad.

"Oh thou who blesseth this to me
Is this a curse? gift? upon my odyssey?
Or perhaps none but plain ambiguity?"
Hence, she'll view the latter, for mirthful appetency 

Now she's picking up her pen
From the ashes of burned feathers
Grasping it as if it's all that matters
She'll actually wields her pen suckers!

And if the clouds will rain and knows it will
Pecks of dust on sole raindrops she'll gather till
Cry on mournful grievance of greed?
No, she beg, "Tis the only lies I love, please don't let me bleed"

~Jinkaifah Arma_Feb 3, 2021


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