A Thousand Pens

I’ll die owning a thousand pens

lost between pages and papers that searched new words

better words, deeper thoughts.

Searching myself.

You told me something, you give me clues

you give me magic.

Last night I was saint and sinner –

you came forward and I came to know myself

a bit more

nothing measurable

not tangible

though dynamically unintouch

and touched.

Yesterday, you knew I knew.

You knew I knew too little.

You knew my struggle.

You find the open wound.

Let those lights in;

Brighter than a desert sun.

Dark ones walking home aimless.

We are one and owners of a thousand pens.

We die owning thousands of pens

found between pages that sought souls,

better words; answers, not clues.

I told you almost everything

i knew.  i knew.

And you did; you do.

You give me clues – not answers.

When day fades into night

I’m saint and sinner.

When time shows its shiny knife

we will protect each other.

I’ll die

owning a thousand pens.


between pages of sentences not finished

not . . .

Tell me something.

You tell me something.

Last night, lost saint and sinner searching

not reckless, but mapless still.

I’ll die!

. . . owning a thousand pens.


About memoirpoet

I've been faking it as a writer for more than 30 years. Keep that low.
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