Chagrin

My knees give out when I think about
the night of that fateful fire.
My spirit killed, the Devil thrilled,
I prepared for my funeral pyre.

And ever since then, I think about when
my ears heard the crackling sound.
Of us, there were three -- and we had to flee!
We watched it all burn to the ground.

So not long ago, I had to forego
the use of my beloved pen.
She now sits alone; a wail and a moan
escape from her corner of the den.

Without her, I'm lost -- the cold and the frost
pierce me down deep to my soul.
My eternal chagrin comes from deep within.
I fear I will never be whole.

So the cold, skinny finger of death might just linger
around my door if I'm not strong.
And it might just tickle my cheek if it's fickle --
or my spine -- at which point, to Hell, I'd belong.