Oh paper, the keeper of word,
Your skin is silky smooth.
The pen, your lover, runs across
Caressing you as it moves.
It's fickle this pen
Sometimes it will poke
It will manipulate you
By laying down a soft stroke.
But there on the table you patiently lie,
Waiting for the words to set there and dry.
Your appearance is altered
Like the sky from the stars
The pen leaves you with nothing
But a series of scars.
©velvetink
V