Pen, un-resting

Slumber shamelessly enticed and beckoned
and my pen, tired from scuffle, succumbed.
In the abyss of dreamlessness she lodged
frozen, lying there totally unperturbed.

Precious solitude, my pen found in the chamber;
Wailing, none was heard; not a single whimper.
But in there too, was a whole army of rust
Nourishing my pen with its scrumptious crust.

The quietude of the chamber, my pen found
it safe; its silence, she deemed profound.
The quandary of wakefulness, she now abhorred
This new life she’d found, she so adored.

But alas, the sun just won’t let it be
“Rest,” he told my pen, “is dangerous to thee.”
Slumber moved aside, its anch’rage now gone;
The treacherous moon had sold my pen to the sun

whose bright rays hugged my pen, his goddaughter.
“Please darling, no more crumpled paper,” he coaxed her.
“No more broken lines, nor reverence for gloom
For my sunrise and sunset are now yours to write on.”

My pen nodded; smile slowly brightening her face
as she pirouetted round and round the blank page
whereupon dots of sorrow vanished and waves of spasm
painted themselves bright; Ah, gone is the chasm.



For my Dungngo, my Sun.

© Sherma Espino Benosa
[June 25, 2006 3:36 am; in my “chamber”]