The quill pen touches gently on paper.

Flows with idyllic expression.

Dances and moves eloquently,

Written each trice.

Youth to edge.

From the beam to the walk of solitude among the trees.

From the house standing to the sound of each step.

From the radiated rays of sunlight to stars of midnight.

From loss to steps back again

It dances and moves eloquently

It writes each trice.

Youth to edge.

From winter nights to summer days.

Spring rain to golden leaves of autumn.

From running through the lively green field,

To the swings and slides of the playground.

But everything has an end.

Heavy ink of black slowed its pace. 

Smudges dot the crackled writing.

The time is near.

The quill pen struggles to cast firm grip.

Its struggles reach their end.

The quill pen touches the last dot of ink in the jar.

“Roses of red

Reach darkened death.

Roses of black

Live to pretend.”