The dark ink seems to run endlessly Quenching the thirst of imagination On paper, the ball spins resolutely Leaving trails of blood in dedication Of the author's ever whim notion Notions of war, peace, hate, and love All come to life to through the pen's dying nub At last, the pigment has all ben spilled The story ends, the pen's purpose fulfilled It served with strength, like an iron quill It gave up its life, it gave up its will Now it receives the author's reward It is thrown out, discarded, no more.
Afterword by Isaac Shaw
What a story! A servant turned martyr, without any acknowledgement from the one the pen had been dying for. It makes me realize I am blessed, and too many of those blessings I take for granted. Well written, Chaney!