in the cold dank space 

of a rundown, long-abandoned basement room, 

she sat surrounded by the echoes of previous lives,

yet so very 

alone. 

head down 

shoulders sagging 

drained eyes 

sad, wispy sighs. 

carefully lifted the timeworn pen: 

pockmarked with use, a living antique, 

weighty like a confession in her hand. 

blackened ink sinks, 

coursing through the timelines that have defined her life

on yellowed paper 

with threadbare edges that have seen better days. 

she walks discreetly, clasping the folded remnants of long lost pain

gently presses the paper to her lips, 

in silent prayer 

as 

it carries the outpourings from her heart 

across 

the contorted corridors 

of a shredded past 

a drop of ink on paper 

(a haunting mistake from yesteryear) 

hesitates 

then smudges the paper 

overwhelmed by rivulets of pain, 

slicing through ancient bedrock 

the droplet stains, succumbing to lost memories, 

buried in waves of nostalgia.

streaming ink as dripping blood from an open wound

each letter a note from the soul 

painstakingly written 

tracing in forensic detail long-forgotten twists and

turns, now mere remnants 

reflecting your inner tears 

fathomless depths of your torn soul 

subdued by countless words 

imbibed with layered meanings 

an emotional shipwreck 

buried deep beneath a sonnet of grief 

then 

warmed by 

glowing coals, 

next 

a spark from the hewn hearth 

reignites the slow burn fire 

flames fanned by the winds of change 

vestiges of hope warm your heart, 

lighten your load. 

the vintage pen honors 

your word 

your voice 

your world 

casting ancient shapes no 

silence can redeem 

pearls of wisdom lie dormant for aeons 

hidden in womblike darkness 

the brave spirit of 

the survivor, nay, thriver emerges, 

a treasure trove of inspiration 

the venerable pen speaks only the truth it finds

weaving words into poems, 

vividly portraying pain to passion 

on a journey underlined by the

bleeding ink of pen