Grand! The mighty feather tears a flurried wind cross the page,
tip of quill enticed to drink, and drunken pours it out in rage!
Rips the fabric white in arcs that smolder in the drying!
Dips its nose again to sneer, and smears emotions in the trying.
Pen in thoughtless hand so stained and blotted by the pain within,
against its will is forced to kill the very page with sin.
Seduced in errant commas, gastric spelling of acrid words,
then bends to touch the love therein with gentle kiss of humming birds.
Then splash! Again is wrought in flurried panic fanfare.
Scratches out a misplaced phrase and stands amidst the blotch to stare…
And there the heart is landed, softly in a sudden thought,
that to the page the pen, in grace, pours a drop of love there wrought.
Tis nothing short of miracle, tis nothing less than mad,