The Pen I Stole From Work

The Pen I Stole from Work Sweet is the air of fortitude; Its molecular structure is arranged From a lesser degree of longing; The whim and stance of breathless Wonder supersedes it, yet it seeps a billet Rise in the light of all such atmosphere. Up this hill I stand and quake at all the Wonder still in the universe, all to behold, All to plunder. For how else is love Remanded? Unless there’s something else to trade? Something ethereal, unique, perhaps Unseen. The choice is simple, brothers few who followed this So far. How do you drive? How do you eat? How do you process day from night? Where’s the closure you crave? In the ether? In the firmament bellow? Has it been whispered in your ear? Unseen, as poor man’s dream respected, No color shape or form, it has no Seems nor handles to cling, No shelter from the storm; its a sullen laughing Old man, a silent saintly nun, A child’s bed undone. The Saturday you spent on the floor as one; The bus that back fired down your street At midnight. The pale remnant of desire beneath your sheets. The heart of darkness true, The five and dollar store candle on the verge of An Inferno. All you seaked beyond your weeks, To open up the door…. What was it all for? I’d have an answer, sure to measure, One to give you solace and pleasure, But I’ll have to leave you full with doubt, The pen I stole from work ran out…