Pen

Sometimes I wonder if what I write can be used to live
To carve out an existence through a stable hand

The first time I read The Count of Monte Cristo I thought
“How can such ecstatic life and desperation come from words on a page?
How incandescent it must feel to live on through eons like this.
How timeless, how honored, to create such beauty that can experienced limitlessly.”

I never aspire to that greatness, as I know it’s not in me
The time of great men has passed, Whitman is just a dream
But perhaps there is something in me that can be passed down
Some epilogue of my existence that can ripple beyond me

I want to live with passion through pen and ink,
though long nights and candlelight