The pen

With a deep fetid breath,

you can squeeze right inside,

Left alone to fester behind,

the writing where you hide.


Be a panoply of lexical glee,

at least, once upon a time,

Let your dancing mind wander through,

A kaleidoscope of eyes.


Through bare, through bleak black tunnels,

of grotesque puppetry shows,

Kneel in tears, bow down to the pen,

and hail, your wuthering woes.


Or catch that birch tree's clipping bark,

Stroke, on a guitar, your muse,

Or a passing star, you universally are,

a pen, just a thing, I loose.