The pen that drags my hand across

the desert of the page,

knows neither joy nor sense of loss,

no calm or boundless rage…

 

it’s just a tool of thought and dreams

to colour in the days,

to bind their rise and fall with seams

and mark the many ways

 

…in which there’s no predestiny,

no gods or revelation,

no saving grace for you or me,

no end, no destination

 

The pen that drags my hand across

the desert of the page,

sees every day, another lost,

in this infernal cage.