And the pen scratches away,
Etching the ideas of the eternal mind
And for years there they lay
Waiting for someone to find
In unison the pens scratch away
Bleeding onto the pristine
Of the unspoiled white pages
Smearing them with the tongue of our minds
the ink lays on the surface
but it runs truly deep
with them I have written words
that into time will seep
This community of writers has forever been my anchor
But as I leave the harbour, and
set sail into tumultuous waters
I cannot help but think
Of where these ones beside me may be
When my story runs out of ink
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