The Broken Fountain Pen Diaster

The Broken Fountain Pen Disaster Underfoot the dropped was-so-lost pen breaks snapping its midnight ink artery to spurt explosively out like some imprisoned force nearly dead but risen sucking in saving air while dispersing into freedom in a fly across the floor the long streaks of such random black pitch arcs streaking fall staining the canvas on which our living room is drawn between a sofa and yellow armchair there will be an awful task to clean this now like aJackson Pollock’s winking quickly cast so rapidly set. After the stroke we gape as the room itself clutches a stiller life mood blank in an erased atmosphere forgetting any will to find a contour of drawn new breath or speech only yet whispers of loss in a similar kind of dreaded time when the corpse lies in its open casket under mounds of white roses while hinting of prayers by Rilke until finally someone declares the tragedy past turning to suggest the use of gold leaf rather than ink on the outlines of the next drawing of the hour as it may proceed. **********. **********. **********. ********** (C) sally Young Eslinger 11/2020 Thanks be to God