How many words
How many ideas
How many feelings
Have passed in its ink
What memories it must hold
As a keeper or custodian
Diligent in its duties
Feeling the weight of each word
How many love letters
How many protests
How many elegies
The power contained
The archive of life’s id
It’s raw hunger
It’s silent truths
It’s untempered cries
It’s secret fires
A bridge between
the inner and outer worlds
transforming thought
into permanence
making it real
making it now
My faithful witness
in my hand
through seasons
of joy
of grief
of change
It is my shield
my sword
my balm
igniting rebellion
fostering resistance
and healing the divide
It’s ink
both wound and salve
The pen
carries my breath
the exhale of my soul
It has held the tremor of grief
It has traced the laughter of children
It has signed the petitions of the unheard
It has trembled
in the hands of the broken
It has thundered
in the fist of the brave
It has carried
the whispers of children
and recorded
the last words of the dying
When it is finished
it will have carved a legacy
to be carried forth
to generations yet to come
The writers pen
© Ron Simpson Jr.
December 8, 2025
No comments:
Post a Comment