Filling up the pen

There’s no innate poetry in the pen, the ink is drawn

from outside, the mind’s a blackened blank till one mystic dawn
stumbles and drops its colours all over the sky
for one gasp of indrawn breath, and then is forever gone.

 

And each dawn that comes afterwards, trailing the half whispers

of peacekeepers and warkeepers, vanquished and victors,
is filled up with that absence. No complaints, just a sigh.
But that too can fill the pen, that too can drive the fingers.