The temple siren calls, deep within his walls
stirring in his isolation, a need for expression and creation.
Reaching for notelets, grabbing at memorets and pigeon holes,
his hands slide and his memory glides,
to form his thoughts and sweetly coat the pill of say.
Curing the world with understanding and wonderment,
at his latest worldmail communiqué.
He writes! He writes!
No more.
His pen tumbles, silent, to the floor.
Words spent.
still bent,
not even close,
to those he meant.
Sailing to windward
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0-pity-the-pen/
