The Circle

The parchment needs the pen
and the pen needs the hand
that's supported by the arm
that's lifted by the brain
That's tormented by the storm
that's swirling around and battered
by the eyes that have seen
what the ears can't hear.
Onto paper flows words that circle like
a smoke ring, and drops walls on the
thoughts and grips them with steel teeth.
The author is reaching for his heart that's
slowly floating from his grasp.
His words can't talk, and his pen cannot
cannonize his sage. Lonely is the soul of
a beggar with no tongue. Sorrow stems
from deep within all of us, and the seed is
planted always - somewhere at some time.
Nevertheless, it's unexpected and more often
than not unexplainable. The author's pen
wants a voice, but reason keeps on battling
with reality. And the pen lays still.