The Ink and the Maiden

The ink of the pen longed for a book of pages to fill with rhymes
The poet purchased a canvas instead
To paint an enchanting maiden amidst the silent clouds
How jealous the pen became of the brush, it bled and bled
On the dull wooden table, it died in a pool of black ink
And never wrote a verse again

That night, the Poet-turned-Painter lay to sleep
While tragedy of the pen came to the attention of the blessed Stars
And the beautiful maiden emerged from the painting like an ethereal dream
With her affectionate touch, the pen’s dark bloodstains became like clean waters
And she gracefully poured it back to its container

As she gazed into the puddle
The liquid awoke from death and met True Beauty
It rejoiced in a way that no human eye could see
And thus, the world became anew to the pen

Even when it was sold, it remained happy
No matter if it was forced to write of the unreal or the real
It savored every press and release and every touch of paper
Because each time it wrote, it knew:
The face of the Friend was imprinted on every drop

How oblivious the Poet & Painter was
He had no clue
That his actions led to a Love
So beyond his world

~ Broken Mystic ~

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