The Pen

To yearn is to breathe

By drawing in life

So feeds the quill

Returning more

In her exhale

The berthing of poets

Wedged between the press

Alone they bleed the ink 

By pain and force of could be

Forlorn against the wall of is

The world its lumen gives

Though focus blurs the whole 

So verse, while trite, hath pollen for perception

A thought, a rose, plucked from a bush

Then placed in vase, as mind

This voice

A ping resounding

Off fellow souls

Whispers through the dark

I am not alone