Spilt

This pen I hold is awful sore
At all the things I use it for
It wants, of course, to be a part
Of some fantastic work of art
Intently, exactly, dutifully made
To dance across a virgin page
Laying down its lines and arcs
To illuminate the light with dark

But, alas, I’m sad to say
It saw no purpose in today
In making lists and signing checks
This instrument was never flexed
The ink it spilled was martyred, thus
Without a cause, with no purpose
This human realm sure takes its toll
On me
My pen
Its liquid soul

~r