The fountain pen 

Laying still against the soft, white sheets,

That sickly liquid bleeds out, 

Staining everything that surrounds,

The words it once wrote are destroyed,

The life it once led is over, 

The nib is blunt and broken, 

The damage is done, 

It’s silver casing is scratched and bartered, 

The dents of time are deep,

The end of this story has started, 

The inkwell is empty and the blood has drained, 

The pages are soaked and the night is coming, 

This fountain pen has writ it’s last page, 

It’s last story, it’s last poem, it’s last play,

It’s last note now ruined,

Now illegible, once held the secrets,

Once displayed the reasons,

The reasons for death,

The death of a writer.


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