PEN HOLDER


Hand made black craft piece,

No exquisite embellishments

Just brimming with simplicity.

I had bought it for no obvious reason.


My pockets are permanent home

for my all types of pens. No question

of their moving out. Yet this new

member established a place for itself.


It made friends with my books at

such a fast pace. I am amazed as

I know books living on my table

are shy sort of beings.


Thus family grew. I am sure many

of my secrets this black fellow

now knows. My books seemingly

chat a lot with it. Another surprise!


It never did, it never does complain

about void, in its heart that remains.

I tend to think about abyss itched

in my soul. How badly it pains!


Perhaps hearts are fabricated

from an enduring material.

In clear knowledge from the beginning,

about powerful strikes of agony.


And as such even in billions

of oceans of tears, heart doesn't

get drowned. It keeps living.

It keeps beating. Facing everything.


I look at emptiness my simple

pen holder is carrying. My attention

is grasped by little plants. Autumn

has seized petals otherwise budding.


But gang is cheerfully waiting for spring.

To bloom, to dance, to zealously live.

Is my pen holder too wishing for spring?

Am I too in an elongated wait for spring?


Who knows but Life!