pondering my fountain pen

By
when the black
ceases to flow, I know it’s time
to open the vessel;

it spins to open,
offering me its empty shell, used up,
stained with remnants of former glories;

old soul gone,
I find a new one and hold it
up to the light; it brims

with ink, promises
new stories, ideas, the perfect words—
and now, to paper.





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