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Old Fountain Pen

I'm born again! I am disgusted with myself, with an imperishable pith of me, a sort of enmity akin to xenophobia: the human being I see in mirrors is a guest from far, a very far off world. How dare you are embezzling me - the soul, the mind, the name! Well, name is yours but what about the same old fountain pen I thought I left behind? Oh, sweet oblivion I failed to find! The death is cheating... On the other hand, perhaps, it's not so bad for us, my friend. To die, to be embodied and again to fill the dearest old fountain pen.

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Caren Krutsinger

Date: 4/26/2019 5:33:00 AM

We are replenished, with new ink, we never fully fade away; I often wonder if we recognize our works if they still linger in places upon our return?

Kurt Ravidas
Date: 4/26/2019 5:56:00 AM

Hmm, interesting question. I'll have to think about it.

Gershon Wolf

Date: 4/25/2019 12:33:00 PM

Careful what you wish for there,...'Tis not alone my inky cloak,...nor customary suits of solemn black, nor windy suspiration of forced breath,..." (Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2)… Interesting ink once again, my poetic friend. ~ Gershon

Kurt Ravidas
Date: 4/25/2019 5:42:00 PM

Thank you, Wolf. And Hamlet too)

Kim Rodrigues

Date: 4/25/2019 8:17:00 AM

Lovely sentiments!

Kurt Ravidas
Date: 4/25/2019 8:23:00 AM

Thank you, Kim)