Ode to a Writer’s Pen 
by Jane Lang

His hand had touched yon mortal pen 
ink long dried, once deigned to shine 
Now gone, I don’t remember when 
yet, every word embedded in my mind 

He lived large, loved hard and free 
all boundaries of prose laid bare 
he was not the scribe, ‘twas really me 
heart met heart, then without a care 

the words a lovers’ knot became 
I gave my soul to feel his passion 
the poem I wrote died with his name 
laid fallow this useless pen in question 

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