Two weeks have flown, my pen lies still,
No longer I, with parchment fill.
Once letters danced, now stagnant, stale,
The art of words, alas, may fail.

Where once the ink was balm and cure,
Now each stroke, a wound, obscure.
From flesh to bone, the layers fray,
The pain of every word, dismay.

Yet still, I wield this quill in hand,
As if by ink, my soul unmanned.
But what if, in this silent sound,
I put the pen, and self, unbound?

No more the plea in scripted lines,
No more the verse in heart's confines.
For what if, in this final stand,
I lay the pen to rest, unplanned?

But wait, within this silent hour,
I feel the stir of dormant power.
The ink, no longer tears, now sings,
A chorus of unbounded wings.

So let me write, let ink unfurl,
For though the path may twist and swirl,
In every stroke, a tale, a thread,
Of life's own bloom, though words are bled.

And so, if ever doubts assail,
I'll grip the pen, in tempest's gale.
For though the ink may mark my skin,
It's in these words, I find akin.

So let me write, let ink resound,
For in these lines, I may be found.
Though shadows loom, and doubts abound,
With pen in hand, my soul is crowned.

© Yogen Basnett