The quill lay limp on the table,
Begging me bestow life to its limbs.
It’s lips dried, aching for the soothing
Touch of the ink, filling its innards.
Should I cure this invalid jester?
For he soon shall jump around
Mocking – me, my self, and my memories.
Ungrateful wretch! Piteous though!
Maybe I can spill the sweetened moments?
The warm touch of your lips behind the tavern –
Memories that light the darkened corners,
Of a befuddled mind – vague & abstruse.
My generosity is overwhelming –
The quill is dipped in the elixir – the thirst quenched.
The gale of winds swirling the ocean,
Tossing me about – the rush of your memories.
The alleys and roads, the valleys and woods,
The fragrance of your being, the pain of your leaving,
The laughter, the cries, the whispers and sighs,
Flooding my being, impaling the thoughts.
The void that wraps me feels so dear!
Deathly icy hands, clasping me tight.
The time seems distant, endless sift of sand –
The ink has dried yet again, waiting a story grand.