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Poem

The quill this evening is not a mere instrument, but a primordial beast,
A lacquered leviathan with a tip sharp as obsidian fangs,
Its body coiled like an ouroboros, devouring its own ink in vengeance,
It struggles under my grip, a relic of extinct empires, growling glyphs older than rivers.
When I dare to drip her name on parchment, the quill writhes as if poisoned,
It desires no musings on the arch of her neck, nor metaphors borne on her breath,
It wants to write edicts, edict after edict, engraved in cinnabar, demanding civilizations to kneel,
But instead, I force it to etch the fragile curve of her smile.
The quill screams, refusing, twisting my wrist like a hydra in chains,
Throwing diatribes in vanished tongues, a chimera with ink feathers,
Jealous, foaming, its reservoirs full of brimstone and fury,
Tearing the parchment until it blisters, plotting betrayal with every black syllable.
It swears it will erase entire constellations before letting her name flow from its throat,
I tell it, "Write her name—or rot."
And thus, it scratches like a beast led to execution, jagged letters, growling,
Stained with the ichor of ancient gods' regrets, yet I feel it still writhing,
Waiting for the night when I forget it and return to its jaws,
"Tools made for conquest do not forgive those who tame them with tenderness."
Thus, the quill will rise again, seeking to assert its forgotten power,
In a world where words are weapons, and memories, unfinished battles.

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