A Poem, the Poet
This pen writes not a story,
but a life upon a page; its glory.
Love for the writing; the heart,
thumping, beat after beat, never apart.
Conceived of bones, the ash; this pen,
to ink bleeding veins, attached.
A cut, this scrap; of emotions peeled.
The scaring tissue; with Soul is healed.
Lightning arcs through nerve endings' link;
Dreams are sparks. Thoughts, the ink.
Not a story, but a life and a pen.
For this is a poet, his poem with no end.
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