Using a pen again seems so archaic.
We lose the sense of memories that
flow forth from the tip of the pen.
Computers distil the memories of yesterday.
With holding the pen once again, it seems
As if the tethered souls of long ago
are released to curl forth into the vale of ghosts.
Pen or pencil, each one records upon an event.
Pausing to think upon things we once did.
Going to school, first date, first dance, and a ha
that first kiss that spelt romance. The tip of the pen
records, these old locked away memories,
Past times swirl around in our minds as the tip
of the pen reminds us of the faces of old friends.
Sitting here with pen in hand near the end of time
I’m reminded of dipping the nib into an inkwell.
Striking a key, deleting a word, hitting backspace
cannot release the soul in the ways of old. The pen
unleashes the heart, of youth. Lying moribund in
the tip of a pen or pencil is the passage of time.
