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!