This feathered quill with fluted nib stands idle in an idle hand and a man with little time to spare,despairs of flowing from its point,a point to make,a case he cannot state.
It is late the ink has bled,I am being led to some conclusion,propelled to see a page, unwritten not by me but by the elements.

Underwater I breathe air,a little trick I found when underneath the earth and being ground they thought into fine dust,the fire was just a place to warm my bones while the winds sang songs to me in dulcet tones.

And still the quill sit silently as if begrudging me a moments rest, ‘t would be a feather in my cap if only I could slap another word out of its tip,but no letters slip to form these things,it seems that silence only brings me emptiness,even less than that when words within are crushed and flattened by the fattening of worms that squirm and hold me in their coils,and any words there were are spoiled,deleted,secreted quietly and forgot about.
In the tomb without a light, this ink is but a link to further things to think and if only I could force this quill to spill something.

Underlined in red and on the tombstone up above it said,

‘here lies within a man so thin
and yet so thick
his quill
a magic stick
his ink
a skating rink

Magic couldn’t save him’

But this is of another page when reached upon a ripe old age and suitably I shall erase that which pertains to me.

©John Smallshaw all rights reserved

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