THE GOLDEN QUILL

• Poetry

								
When the quill is willing, 
That's when the writer starts to die. 
His hand and mind is held,
In the stories that the quill provides. 

For the quill was no ordinary quill, 
The writer often wondered why. 
It didn't matter how much he wrote, 
Its blackest ink never runs dry. 

For this was a warlocks pen, 
Forged from a comet of old.
A silver quill whose stories must be told,
With glistening feathers of gold. 

A filigree of a quill the daintiest  fingers,
Could use to pierce the blackest night . 
To sate it's hunger with the darkness, 
Enabling it to fill sbo that it could write. 

In myth it's done many unspoken things,
Pierced Achilles heel, Gave Icarus wings.
Even helped build gallows and guillotine,
Killing many of the kings and queens. 

I even heard it was rumoured,
Although no one lives to tell.
That when the quill was forged,
It came to earth from hell.

It's evil can never be quenched,
If you find it in your possession.
Never try using it; Take out to sea,
Then drop it in the Mariana trench.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes