MY RESTING QUILL

I thought, perhaps
The day would come
My pen,
The ink would dry
Thoughts that flowed
Like buttered rum
Would cease their asking "Why?"

But . . just when
My head goes
Hush
My pen sits quietly
Still
Just then, the words, they
Gush
And power my resting
Quill.
© 2003 by Michael J. Farrand


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