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
Unless there’s something else to trade?
Something ethereal, unique, perhaps
The choice is simple, brothers few who followed this
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
The pale remnant of desire beneath your sheets.
The heart of darkness true,
The five and dollar store candle on the verge of
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…