Crooked Voices Of The Pen

I move these pens about...
No words, thoughts nor rhyme.
Their tears dried out years before
Though some of them, alive.

One by one I used them,
Setting aside the first.
All had the same reflections
Of color, length and thirst.
Thirst of what, I knew not.
Dryness maybe of the throat to speak.
The crooked voices filled with secrets
To share its bitter knowledge feats.

Pen, how thou art lucky to be
Of material creation
Unlike the likes of me
Where one has to feel
The earthly salutations
Of woe and grief!

by Dennis Go

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