Don't Spill The Ink

My pen moves slowly across the page

It still has ink to rant and rage

What it lacks in youth it makes up for with age

And still it likes to connect and engage

My pen can ooze sweet nothings with the best

Even as I sit at my desk undressed

I can wage war or parle peace

With soothing words as soft as lamb’s fleece

My pen can write all day and all night

Until the early dawn when the hungry starlings

Flex their wings and take flight

Foraging for the worm in the earth

That slithers across the soil at first light

The worm has ink and writes his life and death

Across the mulch and wilderness of earth

My pen has ink to write what I think

And what I feel as I take a drink of warming

Tea brimming with a sea of ideas

As well as one or two tears for a world

Of people who cannot think.

Either that or they have simply run out of ink.