A Pen

There is a deep secret in the dark ink.
You write your name — it freezes in a blink.
You write your thoughts — they scatter, incomplete.
You write your feelings — they trap you in the heat.

The pen moves fast — you chase a fading dream.
It writes your story… yet you slip between.
As if you cast for meaning in your soul,
And reel in ghostly echoes — never whole.

The more you write, the more you feel the drift,
Like fish through nets — they shimmer, then they lift.
The page is full, and yet you know too well:
The deepest truths are those you cannot tell.

There is a secret resting in the ink.
The pen writes words, makes only their skin.
It bleeds, then dries, leaving a trace unsaid.
The pen writes words, but not the thing they meant.

19.04.2025