Here Lies a Girl and Her Quill

Surely the angels fought and down feathers came

Some white with purity, others dark with shame

Tangled plumes funneled in their earthly descent

Two pieces, I discovered, broken and bent

Cupped in my hand as though it was destiny

Soon they’d be coursing with new vitality

Two halves made whole; a forced unity of sorts

Born anew as my quill; forever cohorts

###

Truly, ink does not build a mood on its own

Yet, I alone cannot pen a rousing tone

I am but a slave to the scratch of my quill

Though I do not deny feeling my heart thrill:

Every story is a child – grown with time

Every poem a riddle, told in rhyme

Yes, I generalize…for brevity’s sake

 For writing is an illness, hopeless to shake

###

My quill and I cross lines and push envelopes

We teeter on cliffs and chance slippery slopes

My quill’s dark half writes about terrible things:

Bloodsucking vampires, ghouls, and creatures with wings

Killers’ tales are told, and thieves escape quite rich

A poor captive is left for dead in a ditch

Eerie forests are cursed and kids disappear

The dark side of my quill loves the smell of fear!

###

And then Light dawns and the page is a sunrise;

Its lyrical voice, able to hypnotize

Candlelight dances and flowers grow year `round

Lovers sing to the beat of hearts as they pound

Romance never dies and kisses make knees weak

Snowfalls widen eyes and each flake is unique

Nightly lullabies sound from bushes and trees

Summer breezes cool heated skin as they tease

###

And though my quill seems to be at odds; it’s not

Turns are taken and few skirmishes are fought

Hence, life requires balance and so does my quill

Though my mood seems to sink when my quill sits still

Being a writer is a curse and a gift

It takes patience to scan the sands that we sift

Maybe I won’t earn that gold nugget I crave

Still…nestle my quill beside me in my grave!

Copyright January 29, 2009 ### Sheila Roy