At the fairer side of the middle finger,
As words, imprinting memories that’d
Rest indefinitely along age and linger.
As it’d been doing since the past,
Since I’d felt the inevitable bond.
The moment I framed my first grip,
It chose me as does a magic wand.
It’d remained untouched ever since
I left it, crowned, the last day
Before leaving the shore where
I’d moulded my childhood’s clay.
Into the ocean, unknown, unnamed,
As I swirled around an echoing tide,
Being spaced from its bearing words,
The lips of the golden nib dried.
Left behind were stacks of yellow pages,
Emitting the faint familiar fragrance
Off the words that stayed rhyming,
Narrating stories of family and friends.
Picking randomly up some old yellows,
Discerned were some unfinished tales,
Some from the orchard of naked realities
And some from my imaginary sails.
The grip on its silky black body today
Carried me back to our first sights.
Flashes clouded before my eyes of
The late hours of those silent nights.
As the wrinkled piece lies, ensuing
The last left word did the nib strive.
The wet blue stains waved a relief
That it is still alive…
