A PEN

Some-one told Me “a pen has no soul”

Some, in-animate object

No thoughts, or mind, of its own

I laughed

Thought it was quite funny

So the person looked at Me

Asked that -I- explain

Have not the greatest follies,

Of man and civilization,

Been stroked with ink and parchment?

The person shook their head

Said, "Only in the hands of man"

He denied the part the pen had to play

For are not men just the instrument of God?

Just as the pen is an instrument of man

Because it cannot rail against its master

Like the tree falling in the forest

Does that mean it has no thoughts or rights?

For though it may be but an instrument

To who I would call my friend

I thinks of it as a companion

Scribbling down thoughts to share

A bridge it forms, between the hopeless

Allowing thoughts to move across

Form less Abyss

Which is not even really there

So, maybe, it is not the friend I thought

But my enemy...

Now I just keep it closer than I did before

For in the end

Those whom I calls friends will flock

Like sheep to a shepherd

Upon the bridge it made

Playing a flute made by hand

Forged in the fire of the heart

And lifted above

Beacon to those I never knew

You know, that is the saddest part

There are those who...

I will never see smile

Creaks and cracks upon their face

Full of sorrow

So, each time you read this

Shed a tear for them

Let them drown in an ocean of understanding

Blurring words until there is no communication

Just arms wrapped about arms wrapped about arms

It may be just a dream, but what happens when we have no dreams?

At least, I knows

That the pen is now my friend

Once

Again