By Andrew R. Duckworth
The pen might be a simple thing,
Bearing not but ink,
But while it lacks two sharp ends
Its outcome makes one think.
The pen might be a smaller tool,
As light as the parchment it stains,
But a mind goes hard at work
Relinquishing its pains.
The pen might be the object
Greatest handled by a man,
Plunging one to captivation
With a gentle move of hand.
While the world moves on to other lots,
I’ll choose to sit and write my thoughts.