The temple siren calls, deep within his walls <br />stirring in his isolation, a need for expression and creation. <br />Reaching for notelets, grabbing at memorets and pigeon holes, <br />his hands slide and his memory glides, <br />to form his thoughts and sweetly coat the pill of say. <br /> <br />Curing the world with understanding and wonderment, <br />at his latest worldmail communiqué. <br />He writes! He writes! <br /> <br />No more. <br />His pen tumbles, silent, to the floor. <br />Words spent. <br />still bent, <br />not even close, <br />to those he meant.<br /><br />Sailing to windward<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0-pity-the-pen/
