When the quill is willing,
Thats when the writer starts to die.
His hand and mind is held,
In the stories that the quill provides.

For the quill was no ordinary quill,
The writer often wondered why.
It didnt matter how much he wrote,
Its blackest ink never runs dry.

For this was a warlocks pen,
Forged from a comet of old.
A silver quill whose stories must be told,
With glistening feathers of gold.

A filigree of a quill the daintiest fingers,
Could use to pierce the blackest night.
To sate its hunger with the darkness,
Enabling it to fill so that it could write.

In myth its done many unspoken things,
Pierced archilles heel gave icarus wings.
Even helped build the gallows and guillotine,
Killing many of the kings and queen's.

I even heard it was rumoured,
Although no one lives to tell.
that when the quill was forged,
It came to earth from hell.

It's evil can never be quenched,
If you find it in your possesion.
Never try using it, Take it out to sea,
Then drop it in the mariana trench.

Poetry by Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 49 times
Written on 2024-06-19 at 02:46

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text