The ink in the pen runs dry, in the hand that weilds it
The paper yellows and crumples, waiting to be written upon
The words come and go, sometimes crowding, sometimes vacant
The mind, the eye, the hand, the heart ... wait for the sign
of love and life, of friends and lovers
of hope and faith, of new beginnings and fading memories
The wait continues ...
from the now to the never
from the here to the nether
And, the pen rusts, the paper whittles, the words are lost ...
© Rohini Chandrasekhar
10-01-2012
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